The Adventure of the Deceased Detective
by La variation de l'entropie
Summary: John struggles through the aftermath of Sherlock's death while battling the uncertainty surrounding the motivations behind Sherlock's final actions. He receives a surprise one day that indicates the chaos which surrounded his friend has not subsided with his death. Sherlock deals with the concomitant effects of faking his own death and attempting to return to his old life.
1. Darkness

John had barely made it through the doors of the bathroom before he violently lost all of the contents of his stomach. As he retched, he was peripherally aware that his life, as of this morning, had just completely gone to hell. He leaned back, against the wall of the bathroom, sweating, shivering, and gasping for air. He didn't fully realize it, but he was also crying silently, and huge warm tears tracked briskly down his face, pale from shock. The truth of what had happened this morning was crashing over him, and his body was trying its best to reject it.

Earlier today, his life had been destroyed so completely, that John felt as if a massive weight were crushing his chest and preventing him from breathing. He was taking fast, panicked breathes, and knew that this was wrong and dangerous, but he seemed unable to keep any amount of air in his lungs for very long. The air he did manage to breathe in felt wrong. He felt numb. He didn't care. He didn't care if he were to hyperventilate and pass out. A loss of consciousness would be most welcome at the moment. His life, as he knew it, had ended today. It had been thrown from the rooftop of St. Bart's.

He could not abolish the image of Sherlock Holmes accelerating towards the pavement. It replayed in front of his eyes over and over again. He also saw the image of Sherlock bleeding out on the ground, his body grotesquely broken. There had been so much blood. What for? What was it for? John could make no sense of it.

He could not stay still. He was leaning on the wall, sitting on the floor—he was writhing in agony. His breathing became less ragged as he was momentarily distracted by the blood on his hands. He did not move to wash it off. He couldn't. He lowered himself slowly to the floor, transfixed by his reddened hands. He sat on the floor for some time, gazing studiously at the dry red stains on the palm of his hands and the tips of his fingers, his body trembling, and his shirt sweat-soaked and clinging to his body.

The blood was a precious substance. Something more valuable than the world's reserves of gold had been splattered onto the damp sidewalk that morning. It had been the life-force of the most brilliant man he had known. It was the blood of his best friend. John's face crumpled at this thought, and he cried audibly, and quickly covered his mouth, unable to stop the sounds and the tears and the horrible pain of it all. His body was racked by his sobs.

His mind was whirling, and it was on a horrible loop of being blown away by the shock of it all, and needing to know why it had happened. He could not fathom it. He thought again of the short but agonizing descent of Sherlock's body from the roof to the ground. He had only known his friend was going to die for a few short moments before it happened. He could not understand that it was real, because it felt like the worst nightmare he had ever experienced. He took deep breaths, blinking tears rapidly away, trying to calm himself, but he ended up sobbing again.

* * *

The weeks following Sherlock's suicide had been madness. Officially, Sherlock had only called John to say goodbye, because John refused to tell the police that Sherlock had admitted to being a fake. He told no one about their last conversation, as he had no idea what to make of it.

As far as the media was concerned, Sherlock had committed suicide because his fraud had been discovered. In the papers, John had been painted as an unfortunate victim of Sherlock's schemes. He refused to talk to reporters, and tried to avoid all contact with them.

Coming back from venturing out to get milk one afternoon, John had spied yet another paper claiming to have new details in the mysterious suicide of the "fake genius". He scowled and walked quickly back to the flat. He burst through the door and violently tossed his bag of groceries on the ground, grabbing his laptop. He opened up his blog page, and stopped. He closed his eyes, and sighed. When he opened them, a few tears escaped, and he brushed them angrily away, and typed slowly: "He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him". He disabled comments to keep the desperate media at bay, closed his laptop decisively, and fetched up the discarded groceries, bringing them into the kitchen.

Lestrade, of course, had seen the post, and showed up at Baker Street within the hour, looking tired and worried. He had not managed to rid himself of his habit of not knocking.

"I don't have anything to say," John said immediately upon seeing Lestrade in the doorway.

"Yeah, well, I think you do, John," he said quietly, helping himself to a seat. John frowned and returned to the kitchen, and sighed, knowing that this conversation had been inevitable. He finally decided to be at least a little hospitable to Lestrade, and put the kettle on. Lestrade had been Sherlock's only friend left on the force, in the end.

John had given him a cup of tea, mumbled a "you're welcome", and sat silently, gazing at the wall with interest. Since John said nothing else, and made no indications of wanting to speak, Lestrade broke the silence. "What did he say to you, John?"

John stiffened noticeably. And Lestrade bit his lip, unsure about the topic, and hesitant to ask. "Greg," John sighed, rubbing his face. "I'm sorry—," Lestrade cut him off, knowing it was entirely necessary.

"Look, John. Richard Brook, or Moriarty, or whoever the hell he is, has disappeared. There's no trace of him anywhere."

John fell silent, wondering what that could possibly mean.

"I haven't pushed too much, because god knows these last few weeks have been difficult. But John, there is something going on here that we haven't been privy to. I don't think Sherlock's . . . ." he paused, reluctant to say the word. He grimaced, but forged ahead, "I don't think his death was an ordinary suicide. Something is going on. I need you."

John set his tea down, and ignored it, looking distant. He was silent for a moment, considering what exactly he should tell Lestrade. He decided that the truth was the only option. Maybe it would even help. "He said—he said that it was all true." He swallowed heavily.

Lestrade's eyes widened and he made an inaudible strangled noise, looking distressed.

"He said to tell you, to tell everyone that he was a—a fraud," John said, struggling to speak because it felt as if his throat were being blocked by that massive lump in it.

"And why the hell should he do that?" Lestrade asked, angrily.

"I have no idea, honestly, I don't. I don't understand it." John forced out, frustrated.

"Ok. And when you were called away . . ."

John tried to reign in his emotions. He cleared his throat, and continued, "I don't know. When I realized Mrs Hudson had not been shot, and the call was faked, I thought it had been Moriarty. But," John added , "I also realized then that Sherlock could have known, as soon as the call came, that it was just to get me away. He had to have known, yet he said nothing."

Lestrade frowned, and replied, "Well, that's hardly surprising, is it? He went off on his own all the time."

"I should have known!" John exclaimed, agitated. "I should have known by the way he acted! But he knew exactly what to say to piss me off and to ensure I left without him," John paused, trying to compose himself. He had thought before that maybe Sherlock had been the one to arrange the call, just so he could be alone to do . . . whatever he had done. Like Lestrade had said, he went off on his alone a lot, and John felt that maybe he did it to keep him out of harm's way. He shook the meandering thoughts from his mind, chastising himself for speculating without having any data. He decided to tell Lestrade what he knew, he and looked back up. "When I left, something happened to Sherlock, and by the time I came back, he was standing on the edge of the roof . . . and he was. . ." He trailed off, rose from his seat abruptly, and went to the kitchen, taking deep breaths and leaning on the counter.

Lestrade looked upset and leaned back into his chair, closing his eyes.

John's hands shook as he futilely wiped his tears away.

* * *

When weeks of enquiry turned up nothing but dead ends and false leads, John felt like they had all failed Sherlock. He felt like his friend had been stolen from him somehow, and he was powerless to find out what had happened. Of course it had been Moriarty, but how? How could he drive Sherlock to jump off of that fateful rooftop? What had driven him to it? It was a grotesque game that Sherlock had been involved in, and John was resentful of the fact that Sherlock had relished it at the beginning; by the end, however, John had recognized in the fear in his friend's eyes and the tremor in his voice. It felt like Moriarty had won, taking the most valuable prize of all.

* * *

After two months, he could stand to be in the flat no longer, and he moved out. John had finally accepted that Sherlock wouldn't come back if he simply waited for him. Mycroft assured him that Mrs Hudson would be compensated for the rent until John felt up to moving everything out. John had only stayed so long because he worried about her, but it soon became obvious that her worry for him was far greater, and perhaps even more justified. He had apologized, and hugged her, and told her he loved her, and to stop by and see him. She had cried, but nodded, and gave him more food than he could possibly eat. When he left, he didn't pack much. Baker Street flat 221B laid devoid of life, retaining all of the haunting remnants of John and Sherlock's shared life.

* * *

When a year had passed, he and Mrs Hudson went to visit Sherlock's grave site and leave flowers. When she had left him, to "you know" (he didn't), he had talked to Sherlock, hopelessly begging him to be alive, and he cried again. He was able to compose himself for the ride back, not wanting Mrs Hudson to ask questions. In the car, she had grabbed his hand, as if she had known everything anyway. He smiled at her, but everything still felt wrong and dead and empty. He still felt numb, and he still cried when he was alone. The emotion that dominated his life was agony, and the dreams that haunted his sleep were of Sherlock.


	2. Meetings with Mycroft

He had not spoken directly to Mycroft for eighteen months after Sherlock died. When Mycroft texted, John ignored him, and when he called on him at his new flat, John refused to see him.

Almost inconceivably, John found himself venturing to Mycroft's work one afternoon, and he let himself into his office when he noticed no one was there.

He glanced around the luxurious room, taking in its regal mahogany bookshelves and desk, rich rugs, posh seating and dim lighting. It was exactly the same as he remembered it. Mycroft was a creature of habit, and John imagined Sherlock's death was probably at most an inconvenience to him, because it threatened his carefully formed schedule. He could not imagine Mycroft grieving. He could not imagine Mycroft feeling much of anything, actually.

Eventually, he heard soft footsteps and the rustling of papers. Mycroft, although he had not seen John in well over a year, did not react to his sudden presence in his office, save for a soft, "John," that seemed more of a sigh than an acknowledgement. His face twitched in reply, and he watched Mycroft, who, in his three piece suit and silk tie, gingerly closed the door and proceeded to ever so calmly pour two drinks. Handing John one and keeping the other, he seated himself in the chair opposite in silence, waiting for John to speak first.

John sipped his drink for a few moments, realizing that everything he had thought to say had left his mind. It was obvious now that Sherlock's death had affected Mycroft. He had lost weight, and looked tired and worried. His hair was thinner, and he was pale.

John cleared his throat, and spoke at last, "I . . . wanted to see you."

Mycroft smiled for approximately a tenth of a second, and replied, sipping his brandy, "Yes."

John's eyebrows lifted at this. He turned his drink in his hands. "You were expecting me, then?"

Mycroft nodded. "For some time, though I did not expect it would take you so long to show up," he admitted smoothly, in his characteristically detached yet paradoxically gentle voice.

John glared at him. "Yeah, I've been busy," he said shortly, "You know how it is."

"Hmm. Yes," Mycroft pondered at the obvious lie, then continued, "I suppose that you are here to speak about Sherlock."

"Yeah," he replied weakly. All of John's anger seemed to momentarily dissipate at the sound of the familiar name. He felt crushed and anxious again, and drank the rest of his brandy. Mycroft did the same, and went to refill their glasses. John tracked his movements, and noted the stiffness that had intruded upon his usually fluid motions. He felt obligated to speak. "You are . . . ," grieving was not the correct word, and though worried seemed to fit, John could not imagine what he was worried about. He furrowed his eyebrows, cleared his throat, and started again, "This affects you."

Mycroft, still with his back turned to John, paused suddenly. His shoulders seemed slumped, and he slowly turned, drinks in hand, and regarded John with his piercing grey eyes. "Of course, John," he murmured, and handed him the drink. "He is—," he caught himself, "was my younger brother." He seemed mildly surprised at his emotions, and drank the brandy. After a moment, he said, "I feel partly responsible, and I—," he paused, glancing at his shaking hand, "— miss him." He was silent after that, and looked sadder than John had ever seen him. It was unnerving to observe any such emotion on Mycroft's face.

John closed his eyes. He imagined it was true. Sherlock was Mycroft's intellectual peer, though not equal, as Sherlock had often pointed out. He had always credited Mycroft with being more of a genius than even he. It must be lonely being people of the intellectual calibre of Mycroft and Sherlock—bored and distressed with the ordinary, and finding true understanding only in the company of other exceptional human beings.

John thought about Sherlock's death and Mycroft's part in it. He could not forgive him, but he perceived that Mycroft struggled with what happened to his brother and his role in Sherlock's grisly end. This thought disabled him for a few moments, and his thoughts turned inevitably back to the blood-soaked sidewalk outside of St. Bart's.

John could feel himself pale and become faint, even after all of this time, remembering the scene outside of the hospital. He had felt disbelief, when he had heard Sherlock's voice catch on the phone, telling him, "This is my note. It's what people do, isn't it?"

In that horrible, ethereal moment, John did not feel as if he was really watching Sherlock standing grimly on the edge of the roof, reach desperately, impossibly, out to him. In yet another unimaginable moment, Sherlock said goodbye, tossed his phone determinedly to the rooftop, and cast himself into the cold fall air, limbs flailing, with his coat and scarf swirling around his doomed body. John remembered screaming. He remembered running, and getting knocked violently to the ground, and he felt utterly removed from reality as he clawed his way through the crowd to Sherlock's corpse, grabbing his bloody hand. He was only half conscious by then, and his only instinct was to touch him. Isn't that how one wakes from a nightmare—by doing the impossible, like hitting the ground, or meta thinking, "I'm dreaming", or by touching the corpse of your friend, who just hours before had been alive and with you, and arguing with you, and breathing, and frightened, and real. After Sherlock had been rudely hauled away on a stretcher to his permanent destination, John, who had been leaning heavily on a stranger, unable to experience any more, lost consciousness. And the chaos was over, and a deadly emptiness crept over his life, casting a long, dark shadow over everything he knew.

"John? John?" Mycroft was suddenly kneeling in front of John, and he emerged slowly from his hellish memory of Sherlock's last moments. When John managed finally to focus on his face, Mycroft was alarmed by the pain in his eyes, and the moisture looming in them, though stubbornly refusing to fall. John was embarrassed, and tried to shake Mycroft off. It didn't work.

Mycroft offered him his hand, and John looked at it dumbly for a moment before gingerly taking it. Mycroft stood slowly, and lifted John to his feet, and grasped his arm, leading him to the door. "Can I call my driver for you, John?" He asked softly. John blinked, and nodded slowly.

"Yeah, ok," John replied, still shaken. Mycroft nodded, and John sniffed, trying desperately to hold back tears. "He would think I was a sentimental git right now," he said, wiping his face.

Mycroft's face twitched in what might have been a smile, and agreed, "No doubt. He was . . . ," he struggled for the phrase, "an intolerable dick like that." John smiled sadly, and Mycroft squeezed his arm, opening the door, and lead him out of his office.

When John awoke the next morning, he was mildly mortified of his emotional reaction from visiting Mycroft. He hadn't even accomplished his intentions of the visit, though, upon reflection, his intentions were not very well defined in the first place. He stayed in bed, and let the cool morning air drift over his tired body for a few quiet moments. He thought again of his friend, and closed his eyes, scrubbing his hands over his face and through his dishevelled blonde hair. Last night had been thankfully dreamless. No nightmares of the war. No nightmares of Sherlock dying, and no dreams of fulfilling his most fervent desire—Sherlock being alive. In most of those dreams, Sherlock had never died. In some, he survived the fall. But these were the most emotionally draining. It was a horrible thing to experience such desolation and hopelessness first thing in the morning. He always felt strung out, and he always sobbed afterwards. It wasn't the nice and pretty crying of female leads in dramatic pictures, but the ugly, breathless, gasping, panicked, and agonizing sobs of someone completely broken. On those trying mornings, John called into work, and stayed in bed, feeling too distraught to do anything useful.

After he had told his therapist of the dreams and his reactions to them, she believed, probably correctly, that he was depressed. She also told him that on those mornings, more than the others, he should go to work, and take his mind off of Sherlock, but his mind was never successful in distancing itself from him. Thoughts of his friend were always close at hand, no matter what his physical location happened to be. Even if he were standing in a place Sherlock and he had never been, and never spoke of going, and had nothing to do with Sherlock at all, his mind could be brought back to Sherlock in a tortuous instant. His therapist had suggested that he speak with Mycroft, and attempt to relieve the tension between the two of them. She thought it might help with his dreams, too.

When he finally extracted himself from his bed and walked out to the kitchen, he was, though should not have been, surprised to see Mycroft seated, reading a newspaper with coffee in front of him, donning a fresh suit. John spotted another cup of coffee and a plate of toast and fruit across the table. He sighed, scratching his head, and said quietly, "Morning."

"Ah, John, I'm glad to see you looking a little more . . . composed. Please," Mycroft gestured to the empty seat, apparently unashamed to have started his morning with a bit of breaking and entering. He folded his newspaper slowly and laid it down on the table. John resisted the urge to glare.

John cleared his throat. "Right, yeah. Hi, Mycroft." With a furrowed brow, he sat down, and sipped his coffee. It was surprisingly delicious, and therefore not his.

"Costa Rican," Mycroft commented. "I have it imported." John rolled his eyes, and inwardly scoffed. Of course Mycroft imports his coffee from Costa Rica. "I left you a bag." He added, motioning lazily in the general direction of the counter. In that moment, John almost liked Mycroft.

Through the haze of the Costa Rican coffee contentment, John realized he felt quite uneasy with Mycroft's presence, largely because of the months of resentful silence, at least on his part. Last night had been strange. John had resisted his therapist's advice of going to Mycroft for a long time because he was angry about Mycroft's role in the matter. It had occurred to him that Moriarty could very well have found other ways to destroy Sherlock, and likely would have, with equivalent results. Mycroft had just been one pawn in one particular plan, though John imagined Moriarty had relished the delicious irony of using Sherlock's own flesh to destroy him. Mycroft was an indication of Sherlock's humanity to John, and he knew how badly Moriarty wanted to exploit that. Without Mycroft, John could have imagined that Sherlock had not even been born of mortals. He had heard nothing else of his family in the entire time he had known Sherlock, save for vague mentions of "mummy" from Mycroft. It would not have been difficult to imagine that Sherlock had been dropped from the sky. The man had been otherworldly.

John shifted uncomfortably when he noticed that Mycroft had been examining him shrewdly. "John, I know why you came to me last night, and I want to help you make your life more stable." He announced suddenly, setting his mug on the table.

John was taken aback. He wasn't even completely sure why he had gone to Mycroft last night. "I'm sorry, what? How—how could you," he stopped mid-sentence, as an unwelcome idea entered his thoughts. "You've been spying on me. On my therapist." Mycroft didn't acknowledge the accusation. "Oh, for god's sake," John muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on.

"It was for your own safety," Mycroft shot back, obviously offended at the notion that he found anything about John's ordinary life even remotely interesting.

"How?" John erupted, slamming his fist down on the table. "How? Moriarty got what he wanted!" John was furious and distraught that his grief had been on display for Mycroft, probably in the form of a government report. Or his therapist's notes.

Mycroft was unfazed at the outburst, and continued drinking his coffee, which simultaneously enraged John and made him feel ridiculous at his uncontrolled emotions. But then again, Mycroft was the Ice Man. "It was strictly precautionary," he elaborated. "It wouldn't do to have another tragedy to deal with," he explained, as if John's death would have been a small inconvenience.

"Of course," John said sarcastically. He marvelled at how kind Mycroft had seemed last night, in contrast with the current situation. It made some sense, however: once you accuse one of the Holmes brothers of something, they instantly become aloof and distant, uninterested in speaking about or acknowledging their faults. Their decisions were always justified in their minds, and it mattered little to them that everyone else understood or approved of their motivations. It resulted, predictably, in a great deal of seemingly bizarre and unexplained behaviour. John recalled his ire at Sherlock for poisoning him as an experiment.

"Have you ever thought about coming to work for me, John?" Mycroft inquired, ignoring the previous conversation entirely.

"No," John replied immediately. He sighed, "No, I don't think so, Mycroft."

"Hmm, I thought as much. But you can't keep working at that dreadful surgery. Would you like to have your own practice? I've already purchased a suitable building and furnished it with all of the necessary instrumentation, as well as with a small medical research laboratory. All of the certifications have been taken care of. A small staff can be prepared quickly."


	3. Roses

A year later, John's small surgery was serving him well. He saw patients in the mornings, and spent his afternoons either in his lab, or reading medical articles. He had also managed to get a few papers of his own published. He had realized, slowly, that he was going to be fine. There would always, always, be a shadow over his life because of his friend's death, but he was as content as possible with his life, sans Sherlock.

He had bad days, of course, and they usually came with idleness and loneliness. John had managed to get through the darkest time of his life without the aid of medication, and he was grudgingly proud of that. He probably wouldn't have had such a time of it, however, if he had listened to Ella's advice and taken antidepressants and antianxiety medication for a short while to take the edge off.

He lived alone, and he had found that he liked to listen to violin music to fill the silence, above anything else. When he was upset, he yearned to hear it. He had one recording that Sherlock had made of his last composition, and he played it often. The music comforted him, and it eased his mind after a busy day.

As his reputation as a doctor grew in London, his days became busier. He had to admit that it felt good to stand in his own light, and to be recognized for his own accomplishments and skills.

John visited Sherlock's grave once a month, and today was his day to go. He always cleared that day from work, because he was never in a mood to see patients when he returned. Even though going always caused him pain, he never missed his day to visit his friend. He felt like it was some sort of abandonment to stop going just because it upset him. He knew Sherlock would say that his visits were stupid and sentimental, but he also felt like maybe he would secretly appreciate them.

He stepped out of his office, having finished sending the last of his necessary emails for the day. He walked down the hall, towards the nurse's station. "I'm heading out, Amanda," John called, slipping on his jacket in the waiting room.

"I'm not to disturb you for any reason. I'm to take messages and give them to you tomorrow." She informed him, smiling sweetly at him. He grinned back.

"Yes," he acknowledged, grateful. "Thank you." He turned to leave.

"Doctor Watson, who is this friend of yours? The one you dash off to see every month?" She inquired suddenly.

He turned back around, and shrugged a little.

"He must be important," She mused. "Sorry," she exclaimed, blushing. "I'm not meaning to be nosy. It's just that you have these days you take off scheduled six months in advance and you never miss one . . ." She trailed off, looking a little uncomfortable.

John smiled, putting her at ease. "It is a bit mysterious, eh? He's just a good friend, and I," He stopped mid-evasion. "I just feel like I literally never get to see him." With that, he turned and left.

Grass had fully covered the once fresh dirt of the grave site with the gradual elapse of time, and indeed, time continued its forward march, indifferent to the fact it was leaving Sherlock behind, placing him ever further in the past. It was still difficult for John to accept that Sherlock was now eternally a fixture of the past, and that he became more a part of it with each moment, slipping away into the oblivion of history. The world was less bright without Sherlock's luminance, and John felt the truth of that constantly.

He sat cross-legged in front of the looming grave marker, and gazed longingly at the name there. He picked up a flower from the pack he had purchased on his way, and twirled it idly in his hands. Roses reminded him of Sherlock. Not only because they had fascinated him, but also because he recognized a familiar duality in their existence and the late one of Sherlock Holmes. Roses, as he had noted to John once, were complex, and stunningly, hauntingly beautiful. Just as they are appealing to the eye, they are dangerous to the touch. Sherlock too had possessed such a mysterious duality. He too had been stunning—brilliant and beautiful, with his burning intelligence and captivating appearance; however, Sherlock also had a certain darkness about him. It was a darkness that had simultaneously entranced John and worried him, and it was most apparent in his unpredictable moods and the threat of drug use that had constantly loomed over him. And Sherlock, like the roses he had so admired, had often been intangible.

"You can't tell me the flowers are stupid," John started, shaking himself from his musings, "because I know you liked them. You appreciated them—their beauty." He studied the flowers again. He was silent for another moment, and then sighed dejectedly. "I still don't understand it, Sherlock," he started, and then stopped, taking a deep breath. "I don't understand why you did it." He wiped his eyes miserably. "I don't understand, and I'm not you, but I know you! I know that you weren't a fraud. And so there's something else." John realized the futility of his one-sided monthly conversations, yet he continued nevertheless, "You had a reason. You always had a reason, for everything you did, even if it wasn't apparent to me. And you are such a bastard," he exclaimed, then continued, "You are such a bastard, because when people leave notes, they usually detail out the real bloody reason for why they are offing themselves. But no! Not you. You lied to me, with your dying words. And it kills me, Sherlock," he said in a low, soft, raw voice, "It kills me, because I'll never know why. I'm not you, and I can't find out. Because god, I've tried. I can't understand it. I don't understand it, and I can't ever forgive you for doing this." John ceased speaking aloud, and buried his face in his hands, dropping the rose on the ground.

Mycroft showed up. One hardly needed to use the word unexpectedly, since an appearance from Mycroft was almost always unexpected, as well as almost always dramatic. When John had returned from working in his lab one afternoon, he walked into his flat to find Mycroft Holmes seated in his living room, one leg crossed casually over the other, perusing a massive book.

"John!" He greeted him cheerily, marking a spot and closing the book. John had stopped in the doorway, in the middle of pulling his jacket off.

"Hi, Mycroft." He regained his composure quickly and hung his jacket up, and moved to the kitchen. "Tea?" He called over his shoulder.

"If you wouldn't mind at all," Mycroft murmured.

After John had been seated, he gazed around his living room uncomfortably, wondering why Mycroft had come, but not really wanting to know, either.

"John, there has been a murder," Mycroft announced suddenly. He hardly seemed put out by it. John thought he could almost spot a gleam in his eye, and inwardly sighed. He regarded Mycroft, as he consulted the file he had pulled out of his briefcase. Mycroft began speaking again, "Last week –,"

"No," John interrupted him, "I don't care. I don't do this anymore, remember? The guy that solved the murders is dead."

Mycroft furrowed his eyebrows. "Yes, of course. It's just that this particular murder concerns you intimately." He laid the file in his lap, and picked up his tea with an air of righteous patience, one that closely resembled how adults treat exasperating children, and one that annoyed John instantly.

John sighed, and decided to take the plunge. "How? Why?" He demanded.

"The murderer has left a message for you," Mycroft answered, seeming bored.

John was disbelieving. "A message, for me. . ." John exhaled loudly. "Right, so what'd it say?"

Mycroft smiled and pulled an evidence bag from the briefcase, and leaned over to hand it John. John accepted it, not taking his eyes from Mycroft. When he eventually glanced down at the contents of the bag, he felt the bottom of his stomach drop.

He suddenly ripped the bag open, and took out the photograph. It was a black and white of Sherlock, and John could place neither the location nor the time it had been taken. In the image, Sherlock was standing on a street corner that John didn't recognize, alone, in the snow. He was gazing intently at something, his brows furrowed, with a sharp glint in his eyes. His face held its characteristic pallor and his hair its characteristic darkness. There was something weird about Sherlock, but John could not place what it might be. He unconsciously traced the outline of his dead friend's face. The photo was crumpled and appeared to have been tossed out. Scrawled in sharpie across the top was a note that read: "Where is John Watson?"

"Where was this found?" John asked, shakily.

"In the victim's mouth," Mycroft replied, nonchalantly.


	4. Awry

_A Week Earlier . . ._

He didn't know how, but he had been spotted. His disguise was a good one, he thought, and so now he despised the jeans he wore a little more. He was dressed as a college student in a college town, and had even expertly adopted a French accent to discourage any connections that might be made to his country of origin. He wore a button-down and a convincing brown wig. He was a typical French student visiting Berlin, up until the point where he actively and discreetly fed information to the British government about the late Jim Moriarty's slowly disintegrating network of agents.

And what dangerous and delightful agents they had been, Sherlock recalled with a touch of nostalgia. If he had not been a good actor before, he was certainly more than competent now. His disguises had become increasingly inscrutable, as the level at which he needed to perform to stay alive had never been higher. His ability to maintain complete anonymity did have a boost of help from Moriarty himself, who had given Sherlock a decent plan. That was his favourite part. How better to be discreet, after all, than to have the entire world believe you dead for the last three years, with no reason to think otherwise. It was quite elegant, and Sherlock had always appreciated the cold beauty of such an intricate game.

He took another drag from his cigarette, and pulled his casual jacket a little closer to his body. He put on a pair of sunglasses, and took the opportunity to peer out of the corner of his now-brown eyes. He was definitely being followed, and he was certain it was none of Mycroft's. They knew better. He quickly disposed of the cigarette, and walked down the busy street at a good pace, but intentionally not hurrying. Perhaps his newest friend wasn't sure who he was trailing. An idea of who his follower could be entered his mind, and he sincerely hoped that the idea was erroneous. That would mean that one of Mycroft's had made a mistake, and mistakes were unacceptable in his tenuous position.

He desperately needed to glance behind him, but fought the instinct. It would give him away. Instead, he took out his phone and dialed his only contact. He answered on the first ring. "_Qui est-ce_?" He spoke into the phone in a deep, hushed, and urgent tone, "_Dis-moi qui me suit. I__mmédiatement__!_"

There was a beat of silence. "We thought he was dead," answered the calm yet puzzled voice on the other line.

Sherlock inhaled sharply, and took in his surroundings with an air of nonchalance, but internally, he was cataloguing everything he saw, and already forming possible routes of escape. He beat down the increasing sense of dread that was creeping up on him.

The voice on the other line gave one last instruction before disconnecting the call: "Get out. Get out now. We'll be waiting when you get there."

Sherlock pocketed the phone, and suddenly felt very alone, and very worried. He should never be followed. Something had gone wrong, though he didn't know what. He dismissed the thoughts for the time being, and focused instead on staying alive for the next couple of minutes. These were crucial seconds. He had to find a way to lose the tail and get to the safe spot, where help would be waiting. There was none here.

He spied a small book shop that appeared to have windows leading to a most convenient alley, and a fence blocking the entrance from the street. He ducked inside, and asked in urgent, fluent German to use the restroom. Seconds later he was attempting to open the window. The lock was rusted and he couldn't budge it. He moved to the door and locked it, and then walked quickly back to the window and smashed it with his elbow, wincing at the noise. He slid his coat off and cleared the glass in a haphazard manner, and lifted himself out, earning several slices and ignoring them all.

He sprinted down the back alley, shedding his sunglasses and wig in a dumpster as he ran by, not slowing. He tore at the buttons of his plaid button-down, and tossed that into another dumpster, revealing a green t-shirt beneath. He knew it would only delay things for a few moments once his tail caught sight of him again, but hopefully that was all he would need.

He jumped a fence, and sprinted for the street corner at the end of the alley. Almost there. He spied the sedan, and slowed as he neared the end of the alley. It was about 6 meters from there to the sedan across the street.

He was now walking at a normal pace, and his eyes were scanning everything around him urgently and thoroughly. He stepped out into the street, joining the flow of pedestrians. He stopped with them at the crosswalk, and when the light changed, he walked across the street with them. He peeled off and grabbed the handle of the car door, opened it, and ducked inside in a single fluid motion. The sedan quickly maneuvered into the street, and narrowly avoided the bullet that struck a young man dead on the sidewalk.

Sherlock Holmes was rarely afraid. He saw no purpose in it, and furthermore, he had always known his life would likely be shorter than most. He could usually rationalize himself out of being afraid. And so, when he saw his hands shaking as he slumped down in the back seat of the speeding sedan, he attempted to bury the emotion immediately. It was a fruitless endeavour. He knew something in the plan had gone awry. He also knew that he would not be the only one unfortunate enough to suffer the consequences. He continued to observe, with a brow furrowed in concern, the trembling of his pale hands, spotted with blood from his recent misadventure.


	5. A Bullet for John Watson

John sat at the kitchen table in his flat, perusing the report Mycroft had left. The victim had been someone named Ronald Adair, known gambler, possibly a leader of a drug ring. His wife had found him with his throat slashed so deeply he had almost been beheaded. The government had been watching him because they believed him to be involved in "the most dangerous criminal ring in England," as Mycroft had said.

John had scoffed and said he thought that had been Moriarty. Mycroft just looked at him knowingly. John thought he had felt his heart stop.

Could they still be operating? Was Moriarty still alive? If he was, John thought it was odd that he hadn't heard from him. Moriarty did love to brag, and surely would have gloated about defeating the great Sherlock Holmes, and solving his nagging little problem. Unless, of course, John was too insignificant to bother boasting to, which seemed entirely probable to him. What else was left, when you've defeated your only adversary? John had merely been Sherlock's live-in "ordinary person", hardly worth trifling over. It was a designation John detested, and wished was far from the truth. It was, in fact, a little too close to the truth for John's liking. He thought if Sherlock was alive, he would have at least been able to determine whether or not Moriarty was dead. John wanted to do that, and he wanted to kill the bastard if he indeed was still among the living. But he was quite unable to do either of those things. Only Sherlock could have. Only Sherlock had been capable of defeating Moriarty.

John realized what an awful headache he had contracted in the few hours since Mycroft had left. Mycroft had warned him that Lestrade would be over to see him tomorrow, and to get the picture and evidence back to him before then. Mycroft had warned him Lestrade was unaware he had the picture, and that he was doing this "as a precaution". John didn't know what that meant. He wouldn't be surprised if a bug had been planted in his flat over the course of that conversation, actually.

John wondered why Lestrade had not been to visit him yet, since it had been two days since the murder, and a week since Mycroft believed his suspect had entered the country, though they hadn't caught on until yesterday. Then again, he was hardly privy to the everyday workings of Scotland Yard (or Mycroft Holmes, for that matter), especially given the thorough soiling of Sherlock's reputation. John thought Lestrade might be the only one there who did not doubt Sherlock's remarkable abilities.

He moved to the kitchen, deciding he was in desperate need of alcohol. He made himself a strong old fashioned and sat back down to the police report, and began reading.

It was winter, and it grew dark within a few hours. Snow began to fall. After a few hours, and a bit more alcohol, John left the paperwork and glanced at the photo again. Why should someone who was involved in a gambling and/or drug ring want to know his whereabouts? He really wasn't too difficult to find, which was a thought that made him feel decidedly unsafe at the moment.

He gave up on trying to make sense of anything just by the police report, and stretched out on the sofa, propping his bare feet up on the arm and balancing his glass on his chest. The only light in the room was that of the moon filtering through the small window that faced the sofa. Apart from all the torment that the murder of Ronald Adair was causing him, he almost felt content with his buzz, and the snow, and the cool light of the moon in the room.

John groped for the remote to his stereo on the coffee table. Finding it, he turned on his beloved recording of Sherlock's compositions. He then returned to his lazy perch, and closed his eyes, taking in the mesmerizing melodies of his friend's violin. He let the music wash over him, and he became utterly absorbed in it, tapping his fingers on the glass resting on his chest.

He suddenly heard glass shattering, and before fully realizing what he was doing, he had thrown himself on the ground, and lurched for his desk, tearing open a drawer, extracting his army gun, turning off the safety, and running to the window. He saw nothing, and tried to catch his breath. The streets were empty. He sighed, and regarded the perfect bullet hole in his window with mild shock.

He walked cautiously over the sofa and looked with some concern at the remnants of his destroyed drink glass. He picked his mobile up from the coffee table and dialled Lestrade's number for the first time in two years.

* * *

Sherlock adjusted his backpack for the hundredth time and glanced around the countryside once more. He pitied how such an ugly business could be executed in such a beautiful landscape. He inhaled the crisp mountain air of Southern Tibet, and imagined that he could find peace here one day. He placed a felt cap on his head, and continued walking over a plateau that led to a snow-capped mountain. Officially, he was a Norwegian traveller and journalist named Sigerson who had come to meet one of the most influential minds of the current time. He was on his way to Dharamshala, India.

Unofficially, he was tracking one of the last three of Moriarty's powerful agents. He was still determined to converse with the Dalai Lama, dangerous agents or no. He did, after all, have an article to write. He smiled as he recalled one of his favourite lines of the book he had recently read in preparation, _The Universe in a Single Atom_: "If scientific analysis were conclusively to demonstrate certain claims in Buddhism to be false, then we must accept the findings of science and abandon those claims." Such enlightenment by a religious leader (though Sherlock did not consider Buddhism to be a religion per se) was wonderfully refreshing. It made him positively giddy.

He halted at the edge of a clear and gorgeous lake that stretched serenely at the foot of the snow-capped mountain, just on the border of India. He found a large boulder, and shrugged off his backpack, seating himself. He removed a thick journal, pen, and camera. He took a photo of the lake and mountain. He then opened the journal, and crossed his legs, taking in the landscape.

He lit a pre-rolled cigarette and began to write. He dated the page. "John," he began, smiling sadly, "It is absolutely gorgeous on the Tibetan-Indian border! I earnestly wish that you could see it—the water is unlike water I have ever before laid my eyes on. The mountains are covered by pure white snow. The land bears no mark of humanity. It is surreal. You will not believe what I'm doing here. Both officially and unofficially, I suppose. It would be much more rewarding if I had my friend to converse with on this lonely trek, and through this oftentimes distasteful business. I actually had to kill someone a few weeks ago. You know how much I dislike that. In all fairness, he was going to kill me. But that is really not my business here. I am an informer and a detector only. The government agents deal with the rest."

"I believe that the outdoors have quite grown on me, and I hope that when I return we can take a journey like this. I hope that I can return soon, even though I have hoped for that for the last two and a half years. This is an ugly business, John, and Moriarty's network had a further reach than even I had anticipated. I do not regret that you are not involved in this. I want you, and Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade as far removed from this as possible. I have beheld, in these last months, the very lowest forms of humanity."

"I hope to see you soon, and I hope you are taking care of yourself. I saw your paper on antioxidants! I have no criticism. I knew you were a meticulous researcher. I'm glad that you allowed Mycroft to assist you, even though I am sure he was very persuasive. I am afraid you will be angry with him when I return. He is my only confidant, John, and a properly awful one compared to you. I almost died a week ago, and he barely made a fuss. Interesting, considering the reason for it was his agent's remarkable incompetency. Insufferable fools! That is why I am making my way into India. I fear that the man who got away will be after you, John, if I fail here. Please do be careful. I instructed Mycroft to look after you. If you die, I will throttle him. I'm not running around the world, dirtying my clothes and wearing jeans for nothing."

Sherlock paused from his writing, and looked up at the cloudless sky. He closed the journal and leaned back on the boulder, closing his eyes and holding his precious writings to his chest, savouring the cigarette. He had long ago stopped reprimanding himself for the sentimentality. He found that it helped him to organize his thoughts, which gave him the smallest sense of peace. That was important when, after his final contact this evening, his next contact would be days away in Dharmshala. When he arrived, he would be given an update, instructions, and more data.

It was only two days into his journey, and he realized he was already antsy. He hoped he wouldn't be too late. He buried his worry, slung his backpack over his shoulders, and continued toward the imposing mountain. He would find out soon enough, he supposed.

* * *

John sat on the sofa once more, and Lestrade sat across from him, looking worried, while blue and red lights flashed outside his window.

"Yeah, I'm not hurt. I'm fine," John said emphatically, for at least the third time. He had already denied needing an ambulance. No one but Lestrade had believed him.

An officer had wandered over to his kitchen table, and picked up the police report that rested there. "Uh, sir?" The officer looked at Lestrade, "You might want to look at this." Lestrade looked up. John hung his head in his hands.

"It's not mine," he muttered.

Lestrade walked over to the younger officer, and took the report, frowning. "Obviously." He glanced at John, and sighed. "What are you doing, John?"

"What? Nothing. I am doing nothing." John replied, aggravated.

"Oh, so I didn't just find a confidential police report of a high profile murder with evidence in your flat. Good, then. That would have been a bit of trouble, wouldn't it?"

John forcefully leaned back into the sofa, and rested his head against the back. "I didn't take it, Lestrade. It was brought to me."

"Yeah? By whom?"

John ignored the question. "When were you going to tell me that a murderer was looking for me, eh?" He jumped off the sofa, and whirled to face Lestrade. His voice rose, "I could have bloody well died tonight!"

Lestrade studied his face, and then looked down. "We didn't know what your connection was. That's why we didn't tell you." He seemed to be making an intense study of his shoes.

John blanched, and stuttered, "You—you suspect me of something?" Lestrade was the only person to looked ashamed at this, and the others looked more interested, like they were waiting for a confession. John threw up his arms, angry. "Right, yeah, because I was friends with the criminal Sherlock Holmes! Right? Am I right Lestrade? I was connected with Scotland Yard's shame of the decade, and now my name turns up in a murder investigation, so I must be a criminal, as well." John was breathing heavily, and he tried to control his anger. But he was livid.

"Sod this. Leave. I have nothing else to say." He turned back around, not believing what was happening. Lestrade threw the report down and walked over to John, who was trying to control his breathing by grasping the back of his head and expanding his diaphragm.

"Everyone out, wait outside," Lestrade ordered. There was a loud murmur of protest, but Lestrade did not remove his gaze from the face of John Watson. "Out! Now," he repeated, losing his patience. Gradually, everyone turned to leave. Lestrade remained, and grabbed John's arms, lowering them from his head. He almost sat him on the sofa, but, spying the broken glass, thought better of it, and led him to a chair instead.

"John," he started, but John ignored him and stared stonily at the opposite wall. Lestrade rolled his eyes. "John!" He glared sternly at the doctor. John's eyes reluctantly made their way to the face of the detective inspector.

"I'm not accusing you of anything, alright? Maybe no one else believes that Sherlock's abilities were real, but you know that I did. I do," he said, stressing this in a hushed voice. "It's not something I can advertise, you understand?" John scoffed. "You know it. I would lose my bloody job over it. You know I nearly got demoted." John remembered, and he remembered his guilt at the news.

Lestrade leaned forward. "I'm sorry. I should have found a way to warn you. I know you're not responsible for any of this. But we do need to find whoever is," he sighed, and scrubbed a hand over his tired face. "Will you help? I think we are going to need you for this. The murderer seems to be interested in you and Sherlock both."

John looked perplexed at this. Lestrade continued, "You've learned from him, haven't you? Will you take a look?" John's face remained impassive. "You might as well. We're gonna have to keep you alive anyway." John didn't answer, but crossed his arms and slouched down in his chair a little further.


	6. Separation Anxiety

Sherlock grunted as he hit the ground, and sputtered, spitting out a mouthful of snow and dirt. He rolled over, closed his eyes, and sighed, realizing how badly his body hurt. He deeply regretted that his thin calf muscles seemed to be a depository for unlimited amounts of burning lactic acid. He reminded himself that he was only a day away from his destination, and forcing himself upright again, he forged onward.

His disguise would be short-lived indeed, if he came into Dharamshala looking as haggard as he currently felt. Sigerson was an experienced explorer of foreign lands. Sherlock Holmes was an experienced explorer of the dark recesses of his own mind and the winding streets and alleyways of London. At first, he had not minded the new adventures, and had often found them exhilarating. But now, he was exhausted. He knew his body was quickly approaching its limit for abuse.

He also had not been encouraged by the last communication from his contact. Someone had been following him and had been diverted, but it was not the same person as in Berlin. The last contact had been two days ago, and he would hear nothing else. He had been informed that there would be no help for him in Dharamshala, as had been previously planned. There had been an emergency in Iran. Earlier this morning, he thought he had spotted someone following him, but he could not confirm it. The experience had left him with a distinct sense of dread. In the past week, there had already been three attempts on his life. He now felt his last shreds of optimism falling away. His worry increased with every falling rock and snapped twig.

Nevertheless, his mind rejoiced at the promise of intellectual activity during the visit to Dharamshala. He could speak with Mycroft, of course, but their messages were always very brief, and shrouded with anxiety. For Mycroft, it was anxiety for Sherlock's life. For Sherlock, it was anxiety about finding the next one of Moriarty's agents and surviving the experience.

Sherlock gazed at the setting sun and decided that he would need to stop and sleep soon. He found a place that was shielded by a low rock formation, and surrounded by trees, and decided that it would likely be the best place he could find for the night.

After getting settled, he took a long-sleeved shirt from his bag and slipped it on, pulling his coat on over it. Nights could be quite cold in the mountains, even if they were of relatively low altitude. He adjusted his stocking cap under his hood, and leaned back to rest against the rocks for a moment, too exhausted to unroll his sleeping bag. He closed his eyes, tucking his gloved hands into his coat pockets.

When he awoke an hour later, he decided he should set up his sleeping bag properly. When he crawled inside, he tossed and turned for a while, but could not sleep. He gazed at the stars for a long time, but found little solace in the melancholy peace they gave him. The sky was breath-taking without the light pollution of civilization, as he had seen before. Night after night, it was still beautiful. Night after night, it was still lonely. He took out his journal, a cigarette, and a small light.

"John, I am very close to my destination. I am at an end, I believe, though I cannot name what that end is. I find that I will gladly accept whatever it may be, because I will have accomplished what I set out to do so long ago.

"Sebastian Moran is the last of Moriarty's agents to have any influence, but he has also been the most dangerous. He has eluded me for quite some time. Whatever happens when I do finally encounter him, I want you to know that it has all been worth it. I have survived longer than I had anticipated, despite Mycroft's agent's best attempts to get me killed prematurely.

"Although I have said a little about the last day I saw you, I feel like I should clear up a few more details. I was aware when I let you go after Mrs Hudson that I may never see you again—I knew that Moriarty had but one action left to complete his game, and that necessarily had to be my death. I saw no reason for you to die as well. I have to admit I was surprised by Moriarty's plan. It was brutally effective. Our duel did not end how I had hoped, obviously. But, by the time I had called you, I knew I would not die that day. I was not going to die in the way you were to witness (again, a thousand apologies for that). However, I knew that I could very well die soon after, and I was keenly aware that our phone conversation was likely our last, at least for a long while.

"When I catch up with Moran, I will have done all that I had hoped in the time that I remained dead to you. Indeed, I will have accomplished my life's work. Even if I do not survive the encounter, which seems increasingly likely, I will still be satisfied. The work was my life, John, and by defeating Moriarty and his malicious web, I will have done a great deal to make England—and hopefully the world—much safer. My only regret is that I fear I shall not have the opportunity to see you again."

Sherlock was surprised by the tear that fell onto the paper, smudging the ink. He pressed his finger into the damp circle, sniffing. He leaned his head back, not bothering to wipe his eyes, and blinked rapidly, letting out a shaky breath. He continued with a hand laboured from emotion, "I am sorry for not giving you a more complete picture of events when I last saw you. It was for your own safety, and for that of Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. I hope this journal will provide you with the answers that you need. I hope that it at least partly compensates for all of time you have grieved for your friend, who was still alive and trying desperately to find his way back to you. I am deeply sorry to have failed in that for so long.

"Tomorrow, I will mail this journal to Mycroft. He is to give it to you if he hears that I have not survived my imminent encounter with Moran. Please consider me always, your friend," he lifted his pen from the paper for a hesitant instant, then scrawled his name underneath the entry, "Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

John fell asleep feeling a bit feverish and more than a little resentful that the case already could have gotten him killed.

He saw lightning, and was running through heavy rain in a rocky landscape near the sea. He leaped over sharp rocks, and tore through the grass. He dimly registered that he was wearing early 17th-century British military garb, sword and all. He continued to sprint, not feeling any fatigue or soreness. He spotted a dock, and with increased urgency, raced towards it. He had to get to the sea. When he reached the dock, he ran down it, but it seemed to go on forever, lengthening through the fog. He knew that what he was desperate to find would be out there.

The clouds in the sky were dark and rolling, and the sky itself was a weird shade of orange. The waves in the sea were choppy and violent, and they crashed loudly into the dock. It almost felt as if they would tear it apart. The wind howled, and the icy rain cut his face and soaked his clothes and hair.

He reached the end of the dock after an eternity of mist and rain. He pulled a brass telescope from his pocket and aimed it at the horizon. His heart raced when he saw driftwood in the sea, and smoke drafting up into the air, from small fires that were spotted across the water. The velocity of the wind caused the waves to dance sporadically, and the wood to bob up and down. He scanned the wreckage, and saw a dark figure clinging to a floating bit of wood, drenched, with his head bowed. John panicked. He knew this man.

"Sherlock!" He screamed at the top of his lungs. He gasped for air, maybe from the running or maybe from the fear in his chest. The man only shook his head solemnly, and a wave crashed over his head. John's eyes were wild, and he yelled again. He thought he saw the man reach out to him, but he was being pulled further away by the wind. John ran back a few metres, tore off his shoes and unbuckled his belt with the sword, tossing them aside. He looked to the horizon for a brief moment, and then he sprinted to the edge of the dock, launching himself into the sea.

He swam and swam through the icy water, and finally reached a piece of driftwood. He grabbed a hold of it, just as a violent wave nearly knocked him off. He spit out the salt water and looked around urgently. He caught sight of Sherlock again, a few metres away. He let go of the precious hold and swam towards him, as lightning exploded in the sky behind him. He grew close enough to see that Sherlock was dressed in torn rags, and drenched completely, his emaciated frame clinging precariously to the wood. Fires burned around him, on piles of wood which were evidently the remnants of a ship. Another wave crashed against his friend and his small floating life raft, and when it cleared, John could see him no longer. He swam urgently to the last spot Sherlock had been, and treaded water, looking around. He spied a mop of black, surrounded by a growing pool of red close by and he swam over, panting and shaking from the frigid water. He grabbed the body of his friend and yanked his head above the water. He looped his arms under Sherlock's thin shoulders and grabbed a hold of a piece of wood, holding the back of his friend's head and analysing his face for any signs of life. "Sherlock," he panted, fumbling for a pulse, but his hands had grown numb from the cold.

Just then Sherlock coughed, spitting out water, and disoriented blue eyes looked around, frightened. The strange light from the sky danced over Sherlock's damp skin. A wound on his temple continued to bleed, and John's hand moved from the back of his head to cup his face, his eyes begging his friend to focus. "Sherlock! Look at me." His eyes rolled around in response. "Sherlock!"

"J—John?" He questioned in a rough voice. He finally found John's gaze, and his eyes lit up. "John!" He grabbed John's shoulders, bearing more of his own weight. He was shivering, and the rain continued to pour over them. The water made rivulets down Sherlock's dirty face, and they flowed onto his bare, bruised and pale shoulders, no longer fully shielded by his ragged clothing. Warm tears were flowing down John's face, and he smiled at Sherlock, pulling him into an awkward, floating embrace. Sherlock rested his forehead into the crook of John's neck, and his hands, almost blue from the cold, were knotted into the fabric of John's soaked red jacket. His shoulders shook from the sobs, stifled only by John's body.

John awoke with a start, and felt the loneliness of his flat immediately overpowering him. He continued to lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, deeply shaken by the dream, and he wished fervently that he had not woken up, that he would still be in that place, wherever it may be, where he had been reunited with Sherlock.

The following day, Lestrade hovered over John hovering over the body in the morgue. Molly looked nervous, clenching a clipboard to her chest and biting her lip. John took in the violent slash across the victim's throat, noting how quickly he would have bled out. The killer had been certain to cut the major arteries. The cut was also unusually deep, and the knife used to do it must have had a large blade. John morbidly recognized the work of a professional killer.

"A locked room?" He inquired, motioning for Molly to zip the body bag up again.

"Yeah. No footprints outside, no prints on the windowsill, nothing. His wife didn't hear anything, either. She found the door locked when she came to fetch him for bed."

John frowned. "And he was involved in gambling?"

Lestrade nodded. "He ran an underground card ring. Took it pretty seriously, from what his wife said. Looked like he had been counting his winnings when he was killed, though none had been taken. The amount he had written down matched what was on the desk." Lestrade paused, and then added, "We also believed him to be involved in dealing drugs."

John nodded, recalling this from the police report obtained from Mycroft, but he remained silent. He took the autopsy report from Molly, which had not been included in the report he saw last night, and perused it. He noted that no drugs had been found in the victim's system.

"Ok, thanks," he muttered, handing the clipboard back to Molly. His mobile chirped, and he pulled it out of his pocket. It was a text from Mycroft. "There will be a car for you outside—MH". John sighed and excused himself, and walked outside. A moment after the doors to the hospital closed behind him, Molly burst out of them, chasing after him. She grabbed his arm, and searched his face, asking, "Are you alright, John?" He raised his eyebrows at her, and then looked down.

"Yeah, Molly, I'm fine." Her eyes looked watery. "Are you?"

"I dunno. With the shooting, and the—the picture. What do you think this is about?"

He looked back at her, and said, "I'm not sure, honestly." She nodded.

"Be careful, alright? Let me know if you need anything, at all," she said to him, squeezing his arm.

"Alright," John replied, and smiled at her, getting into the shiny black sedan that pulled up next to him. He was surprised to see Mycroft sitting in the back seat, fiddling with his umbrella. "Uh, hello." He adjusted himself on the seat, and turned to face Mycroft. He narrowed his eyes, momentarily taken aback by the state of Mycroft's hair. It was not all in place, as per usual. It looked as if he had been raking his hands through it. Mycroft noticed him noticing and rolled his eyes.

"Another nightmare?"

John looked out the window in reply, shaking his head.

"What do you need?" He asked finally, realizing Mycroft had, oddly, zoned out. John scrutinized him, but learned nothing new. He could only perceive worry.

"It's worse than we thought."

"Sorry, what is?" John asked, annoyed that he was confused this early into the conversation. Mycroft's inability to state things without being dramatic or vague annoyed him in a decidedly familiar way.

"We are going to have to keep an eye on Mrs Hudson, John. We have already warned Lestrade."

John blinked. "What's happened?"

"We think we were right about who killed Ronald Adair."

"OK. Well, that's good," John replied hesitantly. "Who was that again?"

Mycroft ignored the question. "He's slipped through our surveillance, and we are reasonably sure that he is the one who shot at you last night." John cleared his throat, and gazed at Mycroft, his eyebrows raised expectantly. Mycroft sighed, as if John should have already guessed everything already. Since he obviously hadn't, he continued, "He was not intending to kill you, John. The man who is after you—Sebastian Moran—is an expertly trained killer. It was a warning."

"Oh, right. Why not just kill me?"

Mycroft looked out the window again. "He thinks you might have something he wants."

John sighed, pinching his nose. "And what could that possibly be, Mycroft?" He bit out. Mycroft remained silent, and gazed out the window. John glared at him, frustrated. "Why are Mrs Hudson and Lestrade in danger?" His question was again met with silence, but now he felt a sense of dread come slowly upon him. Mycroft's demeanour lacked all of its usual arrogance. He fiddled with his umbrella some more, and John observed his tired posture.

Mycroft suddenly turned to him, and met his eyes. "Ronald Adair was murdered because he failed to provide Moran with information that he wanted," he took a deep breath, and continued, "Moran and Adair both worked for James Moriarty." John swallowed noticeably.

"Is it still the bloody computer code? Do they think that Sherlock left it with one of us?" John demanded. Mycroft didn't answer, and looked out the window as the car came to a halt outside his flat. "Take care of yourself, John. Please."

John stared at him in disbelief, and scoffed. "Do you really think withholding information from me will benefit me in any way?" He raised his voice, "Did you happen to notice that I could have died last night?"

Mycroft smiled sadly at him. "Yes, more than you could possibly realize. Good evening, John." John pursed his lips together, and glared angrily at Mycroft. "Right, fine. Bye, Mycroft," he said, and opened the car door. It slammed shut a second later.


	7. Threads

John had not been able to sleep, and instead was reading the latest update on the Ronald Adair murder. He flipped through the file of Sebastian Moran that Mycroft had sent to his flat. It was chilling that someone could be so accomplished at killing. Moran had been a colonel in the military, and had served as a sniper overseas for several years. He had retired, and shortly after that, had become involved with Jim Moriarty. John realized Moran could have been one of the men who had aimed a rifle at his explosive-ridden chest in the darkened swimming pool where he and Sherlock had first met Moriarty. The thought was disquieting.

He could not make sense of why Moran would be after him now, after so long. Surely he knew Sherlock was dead, and what was John without Sherlock? Certainly of no concern to the criminal classes, and yet it seemed as if he was. It was baffling. Even more baffling to John was the thought that Mycroft seemed to know why this was all happening, but he decided to keep that information to himself, perhaps figuring that John and Lestrade could catch Moran before he killed them, all without the knowledge of what Moran wanted from them. John decided that Mycroft's need to be involved in government intrigue at the cost of his peace of mind was unnecessarily dramatic. But Mycroft was always unnecessarily dramatic, a trait that seemed to be remarkably hereditary.

John leaned back from his desk and rubbed his eyes, exhausted. His conversation with Mycroft, besides enraging him, had also left him feeling apprehensive. Mycroft _had_ been worried about something, and whatever had melted the ice of his demeanour could only be horrifically bad. John wondered if the information was not so devastating that Mycroft had not been able to tell him. It had to do with Sherlock, after all, whatever it was, but John could think of nothing that was more terrible than what he had already gone through with Sherlock.

He had no idea what Moran wanted from him. John was painfully aware that Sherlock habitually did not share all of the relevant details of his cases with him, and no series of events seemed to have more gaping holes in them than the ones that lead up to his death. It was almost certain to him that Sherlock had not told him everything, and it was maddening. Sherlock liked to keep details to himself until he was sure of something. He would rarely speculate without having enough data, which meant he would rarely enlighten John or anyone else about something until he had solved a case. This, of course, ensured that Sherlock would be able to dramatically reveal details at his leisure. It really was most unhelpful that he had died before sharing with John what the hell had happened. He couldn't help but feel that Sherlock's bizarre last words were related to what was happening right now. He just didn't know how.

John gazed longingly at his empty tea cup, and decided more tea was in order. As he waited for the kettle to boil, he parted his curtains and looked up at the sky. He gazed at Venus twinkling determinedly through the light pollution of the London sky.

* * *

Sherlock awoke suddenly to what he thought were soft footsteps. He lifted his head from the ground and tried to make out shapes in the darkness, but could not perceive much. When his eyes finally adjusted to the moon and star light, he could still find no reason for the sound that had disturbed him from his uneasy slumber. He waited in silence for several tense minutes, not daring to move. He did not hear the sound again, so he slowly lowered his head once more, and eventually fell back into a fitful sleep.

The alarm on his watch awoke him about an hour before sunrise. When he had been back at Baker Street, he would often sleep in late. Those days seemed to be permanently behind him, but he found that he actually enjoyed the quiescent hours before the dawn chased the shadows of night away with her rosy fingers. After such a restless sleep, he knew he would welcome the sunlight. He felt uneasy as he efficiently prepared for his short hike into Dharamshala.

As the sun rose in the sky, long shadows were cast over the trees, and Sherlock stopped and admired the view of a sky both dark and dotted with stars, and streaked with the colours of sunrise. The light of the early morning danced across the snow-covered mountains and the tops of the trees. Sherlock spied the bright light of Venus, and as he gazed at the small green dot, he wondered, for the first time in a long time, how far away it was. He suddenly felt insignificant, and yet as if he had a very specific place in the universe as well. He felt as if today would the day in which he would ultimately fulfil his role, and complete his life's work. Although he knew it should bring him some joy or peace, all he could feel was melancholy. He exhaled into the crisp mountain air, which was cold enough to cause the vapour in his breath to condense. He glanced at Venus once more, swallowed his apprehension, and continued toward his destination.

His heart lightened as he spotted the first buildings on the edge of Dharamshala. He had made it. His first action was to mail the journal. Thirty minutes later, he had checked into a hotel. He let himself into his room, which was furnished with beautiful Indian furniture and native plants. He shook off his heavy backpack and threw it on the bed. He walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower, feeling a little giddy at the thought of steaming water flowing over his skin.

After his shower, he walked through the steamy bathroom and into his cooler room, covered only by a towel which was wrapped precariously around his slender waist. His hair stuck up in all directions, and he ran a hand through it, making it considerably worse. He all but collapsed onto the soft bed, and he smiled into the blankets and pillows, imagining that this was the most wonderful and comfortable bed in the world as he closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep.

Five hours later, Sherlock was looking and feeling much better. He dressed as Sigerson, with his backpack and camera, and headed outside, prepared for anything. He spotted the man following him within ten minutes of walking the tourist-filled streets. The now-familiar feeling of dread crept upon once more, and since he was on the edge of town anyway, he ducked by a shop perched on a hill, and headed straight into the wilderness.

The backdrop of the landscape was the snow-capped mountains he had trod through on his way. He didn't hurry, and even stopped to snap some pictures of the gorgeous views. He took in the dramatic backdrop, and the breath taking, rolling hills. He was being almost nonchalant about his tail, and he couldn't find it in himself to be extremely alarmed. He had accepted it—three years of chasing only to become the prey. There had only been a small chance of surviving it, and he only had one thing left to do.

He walked over sharp rocks and through a small, bubbling stream. He was far out into the hills now, and the grass was beautiful and green, and the air was crisp and pure. Still, he could not shake the overwhelming feeling of sadness he was experiencing. He only regretted the loneliness of the last three years. At the hotel, he had thought about writing Mycroft, but as usual, he could not find the words to fully reconcile their tumultuous relationship. He found it difficult even though he knew he was mostly at fault. He had been unstable before.

He continued walking, and he was surprised by a twig snapping much closer than he had expected. He whirled around, and reached for his concealed knife strapped to his ankle, but thought better of it. He let his pant leg drop, but kept his eyes wide and alert. The setting sun was casting long shadows of the tall trees on the ground, making the moment seem surreal. He spotted the shadow of the man before he spotted the figure walking out into the little clearing.

"Sigerson, is it now? We do struggle to keep up with all of your clever disguises."

Sherlock said nothing, but cocked his head. This person was not Sebastian Moran. He regarded the man, who was big and bulky, and mildly threatening, since Sherlock had spotted the concealed firearm that was bulging out of his jacket instantly. The man stepped closer, but Sherlock did not move.

He continued to speak while advancing towards Sherlock. "Are we going to have a bit of a tussle, or will I just be able to bring you right in? We are so desperate to hear from you, to hear about your adventures, as you know."

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked, looking down his nose at the slightly shorter man.

"You have already been such a nuisance to us, Sherlock Holmes. Do I need to repeat my previous question?"

Sherlock stiffened slightly at the use of his name, and replied, icily, "No. I must admit that I'm impressed with your relentless surveillance. I can see that I have little choice in the matter."

"Indeed," the stranger replied, pulling the gun out of his pocket and aiming it at Sherlock's head. He grabbed his arm and forced him to walk deeper into the hills. Sherlock offered no resistance.

They continued to walk, even after complete darkness had fallen. His newest acquaintance pulled a flashlight out of his pocket, and as he was fumbling with the switch, Sherlock acted quickly, knocking the gun out of the man's hand, and elbowing him in the face. He grunted in pain, falling to the ground with a profusely bleeding nose. Sherlock quickly pulled the knife from its ankle strap, and jumped on top of his flailing assailant. He pressed the knife forcefully to the man's throat, and his movements gradually stilled.

"I am offended," Sherlock panted into his ear, "That you lot think taking me in is a one-man job."

The man began to move again, snarling in anger, but Sherlock pressed the knife deeper into the tender skin of his throat, drawing the smallest amount of blood.

"I do hope you fully realize the situation that you are now in," Sherlock bit out. "Where is Moran?" He demanded.

The man was silent. "Please believe me when I say that I will kill you without the smallest regret if you do not tell me immediately," he informed him, increasing his weight on the man's body, and the pressure on the knife slightly. A steady stream of blood was now making its way down the man's thick and unshaven neck. "Where is he?" He repeated, glaring angrily above his victim.

"He's—," the man coughed, and swallowed. Sweat started to appear on his forehead, and Sherlock clenched his jaw. "He's in London." Sherlock's eyes widened, but he did not let up.

"Why?" The man did not answer immediately. Sherlock angled the knife so as to slice across the man's carotid artery.

"J—John Watson," he gasped out, now desperate. "He's finishing it." Sherlock's eyes were wild at this pronouncement, and he clenched his teeth, breathing heavily.

"John," he echoed, whispering. He suddenly jerked his wrist across the man's neck. He wiped the blade on the ground, strapping it back to his ankle. He got up slowly, thinking, and then quickly turned around, and began running back towards the city, hurdling rocks and tearing through the trees, even in the dark of night.

After about twenty minutes of running, he stumbled and rolled over a sharp patch of rocks, cursing loudly. He dimly realized his legs were bleeding quite badly, but he pushed himself up, and began sprinting even faster. He had to get back.

In the dark, and in his desperation, he misjudged the ground, and stepped out into air, and he began tumbling down a steep embankment, stirring up dirt and bruising himself up. He yelled in surprise, and caught himself on a rock ledge, as his body continued outward. His shoulder made a terrible popping sound, and his bleeding, bruised hands held his body from toppling over the edge. He looked down, panting, and saw only darkness. He glanced up at the stars, which held his gaze for a moment before he closed his eyes, and his tenuous grip began to slip.

* * *

As John stepped out of his flat to head for work, Sebastian Moran carefully traced his movements through the scope of a high-powered rifle. He stilled, focusing on John's head. He began to put pressure on the trigger just as his mobile rang. He sighed, abruptly ceasing his actions. He answered it.

"He's gone. We don't know where he is. Paul was found dead this morning," a voice informed him. He blinked, and lowered the mobile slowly, ending the call. He glanced at John Watson once more, and watched him climb into a cab. He pulled out a bag, and began to deconstruct his rifle.


	8. Revelations

Mycroft sat back in his chair, watching the fire. He was deep in thought, and stared at the journal that was in his hands—the journal his rash younger brother had kept despite his advice. The note that had accompanied it read simply: "Please forward to John if you don't hear from me within a few days." Mycroft knew this meant that Sherlock had at least safely made it to Dharamshala. The fact that Moran had turned up in London in that time could only mean that Sherlock had been found out. It had taken his agents too long to confirm that it had been Moran.

Moran suspected that John had been in contact with Sherlock. It had been Mycroft's job, however, to make sure John did not find out about Sherlock until the project had been completed. It was very close to finished now, and the faking of Sherlock's death had been extremely successful. Moriarty's criminal ring was now a handful of rogue agents, and Moran was the leader of those few. Without Moran, it would hold next to no power. It was one of the most successful of Mycroft's secret projects, and Sherlock had been an expert and quick-witted tracker, as Mycroft knew he would be. Sherlock was indeed peerless, and had kept himself alive on his skill alone for a long while.

But Mycroft had held reservations about letting Sherlock go out on his own. His younger brother did not follow orders, and adhered only to his own methodologies. Which meant his backup could only be limited. He knew also that Sherlock would have to do things he was not accustomed to. He had worried what his brother would be like when he returned, if he ever did. He no longer needed to worry about that, Mycroft thought, disconsolately.

Sherlock was a strict moralist. His morals, his own code of ethics, were exactly that—Sherlock's own. Beginning from first principles, Sherlock had decided and defined his own morals, uninfluenced by religion, law, or society. Consequently, his morals did not always align with those of law, religion, or society, which made him both a versatile agent and a dangerous adversary. Mycroft imagined it was one of the things that drew John to Sherlock so severely. John saw this remarkable feat of intellectual honesty, and yes—humanity—in his brother, when so many others did not.

Mycroft had noticed it long ago, and he was keenly aware of how dangerous it was for his brother. Shunned by his peers, and scrutinized by the law—unacceptable to most of society. They found his skills convenient and remarkable, of course, but they did not associate with him. Mycroft had the same skills, but he could blend in. Sherlock found it impossible and unbearably frustrating to even try. He had never held any desire to fit in with everyone else. He had long ago let go of any thought that it might be possible. Sherlock was eccentric and his intensity was uncomfortable to most people. He was a different point of view, an outlier; however, he was a breath of fresh air for John Watson, and John had accepted him.

John was somebody that Mycroft trusted with his brother, to watch out for him. And so he felt like he had failed two people. He had left Sherlock to fend for himself, as he ever wanted, and he had left John to believe that his best friend had committed suicide, though for his own protection, and of course, for that of a great deal of the civilized world. He had not heard from Sherlock for two days since receiving the journal. One of his agents had made a mistake, and now Sherlock was missing. Sherlock, one of the greatest minds of his time, an innovator in scientific thought, and his own little brother, was gone because of a morbid game gone wrong.

Mycroft struggled with what to do with the journal. It would throw John's life cruelly back into chaos—how could it do otherwise, when its contents would show that John had been lied to, and that Sherlock, with Mycroft's help, had knowingly left him with unanswered questions and years of pain, that his best friend had been alive for the last three years, but made no contact with him; how could it do otherwise, when its contents would reveal that nothing was as it seemed, and that even though Sherlock had been alive just a few days ago, he was now gone.

Sherlock would hold no such qualms—he had always intended for John to know the truth, no matter how painful it would be, and no matter what John would think of him. The decision to fake his death had been an easy one. It would have required less effort to die, but he had seen an opportunity to destroy Moriarty's network. That is not to say that it had not been extremely difficult to do. Sherlock had been torn apart when he called John, and he had been haunted by the sound of John screaming his name in the horrible realization that he was about to witness his friend die. It had been emotionally painful, but the decision had been easy. No, Sherlock had not struggled with the decision, and he would not have struggled with this one. John would be hurt, but he would be better off knowing the real reason for his friend's last words, and the real reasons for his eventual demise. John deserved to know what his friend had done for him. Sherlock had sacrificed his reputation and likely his friendship with John as he had made that final call. He had accepted the danger and turmoil of the next three years for the sake of other human beings. Mycroft had no delusions that Sherlock had been interested in Queen and Country when he had jumped off that roof.

Still, Mycroft struggled with the crushing guilt. But it was his to deal with, and no one else's. He ran his hand over the cover of the journal, and searched his mind for any logical reason for why his brother might still be alive. The only hope lay in the fact that he had received no reports of his body being discovered, but it meant little. He should have heard something by now, and Sherlock had been left alone in India, without backup, and thoroughly burned. They had found out he was still alive, and now all that Sherlock had worked for was at risk. They had already come after John. Mycroft had sent people out to find Sebastian Moran, and he hoped that his agents could accomplish what Sherlock had failed to do thus far. He desperately wanted to protect John from Moran, but the best way to do that now was to ensure that he knew every sordid detail.

He stood up suddenly, and laid the journal on his empty chair. He grabbed his coat and umbrella. He buttoned it slowly, pacing a little. He walked back to the chair, picked up the discarded journal, and tucked it into his coat pocket. He began towards the door, but stopped in front of it, his arm in mid-reach for the handle. He closed his eyes against an unwelcome thought, and turned around, walking over to his desk. He opened a drawer, and rummaged around, removing a handgun. He checked the chamber quickly, and then tucked the weapon into his waistband, underneath his jacket.

It was raining before he reached John's flat, and Mycroft noted that it was nearly midnight, but he got out of his car anyway, and as the driver pulled away, he realized he had forgotten his umbrella. He walked to the door and knocked, disregarding the rain.

John opened the door, apparently still awake. He peered at Mycroft, confused, "Mycroft?"

Mycroft looked at John, his eyebrows furrowed with worry. He blinked, and rain ran down his face.

When John let him inside, Mycroft unbuttoned his coat, but kept it on. John offered him a seat, but he shook his head, waving John off, but still not speaking. John was puzzled, and scrubbed his hands through his hair. "Do you need something?" He eventually asked, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to another.

Mycroft inhaled sharply, and lifted his head, having been looking at his feet before. "I—," he started, then stopped, and cleared his throat. "I have something for you."

John squinted at Mycroft, unable to read what was on his face. He looked uncomfortable, and it was making John nervous. "Ok," John replied, still confused. "What is it?"

Mycroft slowly and painfully pulled the journal from his coat, and his breathing hitched as he ran his hands over it. He then offered it to John, his face paling. John reached for it, searching Mycroft's eyes. John studied it for a brief moment, and then looked back at Mycroft.

"Forgive me, John," he choked out, and whirled around, and was gone.

Mycroft closed the door to the flat, and leaned against the outside wall, his eyes moist with unshed tears. He blinked rapidly, and then closed his eyes. He covered his face with trembling hands.

John gazed at the spot where Mycroft had been, then back at the journal, his mouth open in disbelief. He flipped open the front cover. On the inside it read: "Sherlock Homes, post-mortem". John froze. It was written in Sherlock's handwriting. He looked at the door again, and then moved to the sofa, sitting down. He flipped the page. It was dated the day of Sherlock's funeral. John blinked once. He raised his eyes from the page, not comprehending what he was reading. He took a shaky breath, and then read it again. The date was the same. He continued reading: "The day of my funeral." He stopped, and re-read the line. And again. He slumped back into the sofa, as the full force of the realization hit him.

Sherlock had been alive.

He felt numb and confused. Breathing heavily, he lowered his eyes again to the journal, and continued reading: "I can't believe Mycroft ordered that bloody stupid headstone! He did it just to anger me. How mature. I'm sure John would agree with me. Why do people even have headstones? As if the placement of your dead body actually matters or holds any significance whatsoever." John looked up again, his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth hanging open in utter shock.

He blinked rapidly, and flipped through the pages, stopping on a random entry. It read: "For a fake genius, I certainly am making good progress with Moriarty's web of agents. At any rate, it was obviously the assistant. He was underpaid for his qualifications, and his IQ was at least thirty points higher than the lab supervisor's. He really should have been careful not to carry around his extra-curricular research notes. Breaking into lockers really is child's play, John, as you know. Did he honestly think that in a lab full of chemists, no one would notice materials missing that could be used in the synthesis of explosives? Well, I suppose I was the only one who did notice. Even after neutralizing the Marseilles agent, I do want to finish that research I started a month ago. It should only take another week to complete the synthesis of that new tar derivative."

John inhaled sharply, and then snapped the journal closed. He leaned into the back of the sofa, trying to control his breathing. Sherlock had been alive. John blinked back tears. He had not died when he plummeted from the roof of St. Bart's. John felt himself falling into shock. The edges of his vision seemed to blur, and his blood rushed in his ears. He tried to breathe deeply, but his heart was racing. How? _Why_?

With shaking hands, he managed to open the journal once more, and flipped through the pages to see how many entries had been made. It was nearly full, and he stopped at the last one, running his hands over the letters, not comprehending them, in wonder. It was definitely the scratchy handwriting of his friend. John swallowed the lump in his throat. These were words written by Sherlock, who was long-ago deceased. Supposedly. He felt the smallest flicker of hope spring up in his chest, just as a crushing disappointment and feeling of betrayal arose also. His eyes watered again, as the hope became completely overshadowed by the fact that his friend must have been alive, but had never contacted him. John held a hand over his mouth, dropping the journal into his lap.

After marginally regaining his composure, he forced himself to read the last entry, and a nagging corner of his mind reminded him that Sherlock always had reasons for his actions. He wanted so desperately to believe there had been a reason for this. If this could even be real.

Frozen to the spot, he read the entire journal. By the time he had finished, he had been crying steadily for the past hour, and the morning light had begun to filter through his curtains. He closed the journal, buried his face in his hands, and wept.

An hour after reading the last words of the journal, John found himself at Mycroft's office. He strolled in, and Mycroft looked up from his desk. He was still wearing his clothes from the day before, and he had obviously been awake all night. He slowly put the pen he had been holding down. He pushed himself up from his seat and warily walked around the giant desk to greet John. Mycroft observed John's body, which was entirely tense. He was pale, and his eyes were red, and he sniffed, walking across the room towards Mycroft, not pausing or slowing until he stood right in front of him, looking directly into his grey eyes.

Mycroft started to open his mouth to speak, but was immediately cut off by a punch to the face so forceful that he fell against his desk, scattering the various objects that had laid on top of it. Mycroft blinked, massaging his jaw, and sat up slowly, gazing at John. John glared at him for a moment, then grabbed his collar and forced him up.

"Is he dead?" John demanded, his face inches from Mycroft's. His eyes bored into Mycroft's.

He winced, and then replied, "We think so."

John scoffed, and nodded, choking back a sob. He abruptly released the taller man, and pushed him away. He then turned on his heel, and marched out of the office. The journal remained tucked securely underneath his arm.

Mycroft sat on his desk for a moment, rubbing his jaw. He then quickly got up and ran out the door, after John. He burst into the street, and he caught sight of John disappearing around a corner. He spied a man get up from a bench, discard a newspaper, and follow him. His eyes widened, and he felt for his gun, hesitating for an instant. Ignoring his reservations, he began to run after John's retreating figure and the man following him.


	9. The Best Laid Schemes

_Three Days Earlier. . . _

It had taken all of his remaining strength to pull himself up from the edge over which his body had dangled so precariously. He had clawed at the grass and dirt and searched for a hold with his feet for a long while before he had managed to pull himself to safety. Only after he stood on solid ground once more did he notice that in addition to his shoulder throbbing, his right wrist seemed to sit at an odd angle, and hurt rather badly. Outwardly unfazed, he brushed off his jacket and tattered pants, and continued toward the hotel, albeit a bit more carefully.

He had the beginnings of a plan in his mind, but needed more time to work out the details. Sigerson had to disappear, that much was obvious. When he finally reached the hotel, he walked quietly over to his window and broke open the latch. Better to not draw attention to himself.

Blood dripped on the wood floors of the hotel room as Sherlock paced back and forth. His knee was now swollen and painful, and his shoulder dislocated and throbbing. His wrist was probably broken during his first fall on the rocks, and made no better by his desperation to cling to the ground from the edge of the embankment. If his wrist did not get reset soon, there could be permanent damage. He snarled in frustration at his physical discomfort. He looked in the mirror and observed his filthy, torn clothes and wild hair. He fixed his hair, washed his face, and tore off his clothes. He cleaned and bandaged his bleeding knees, and dressed, but not in the clothes of the Norwegian traveller. This time, he had on jeans, a button up, and a baseball cap that bore the logo of an American basketball team.

Within a few minutes, he sat in the lobby, observing every person to walk in or out. He assessed every detail of every adult, trying to determine their profession, while idly turning the pages of a newspaper.

Within a few minutes he spotted an American woman who had her hair pulled back into a professional bun, but with a cheap watch and comfortable shoes. The man with her was far better dressed than she, and had an expensive watch. There was a folder from a medical conference sticking out of his laptop bag. Judging by their body language, they were sleeping together. The man was married, and the woman must be his nurse. He walked up to him, and spoke with an American accent, "Sir, you are a physician, are you not?"

The man turned to him, surprised. "Well, yes. Can I help you?" Sherlock smiled shyly.

"I went hiking earlier today and took a bit of a tumble. I think I may have broken my wrist. If it's no trouble, would you be so kind as to snap it back into place? I'm afraid I'll make it worse if I attempt it myself." He shrugged a bit, then looked at the doctor pleadingly, and leaned closer to him, whispering, "I would feel much better if an American doctor looked at it."

The doctor hesitated for a moment, and glancing at Sherlock's wrist, which he held gingerly in his left hand, replied, "Yes, I believe you are right. I have my bag in my room."

The doctor had the contents of his medical bag laid on the bed where Sherlock was seated. "This will hurt." Sherlock glanced down at his now severely swollen wrist, which the doctor held in his hands.

"Yes," he observed, coolly.

The doctor blinked at him, then shook his head once, and motioned for him to lie down. He complied. "Try not to move your arm," he instructed. Sherlock stared at the ceiling as the doctor gingerly turned the wrist in his hands. "Ok. Here we go." There were several ugly snapping sounds, as the doctor adjusted the bones in his lower arm. Sherlock flinched at the pain, but otherwise showed no other signs of discomfort. His mind was miles away.

He returned to his room with a splint, pain meds, and instructions to get an x-ray as soon as possible. He discarded the pain meds on his bed, and started to pace again, agitated. Moran's agents had known he was alive. Surely Mycroft had noticed Moran's presence in London and had taken action to protect John, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson from their promised bullets. He fleetingly wondered if it had been worth it, after all. But there had to be a way to get to Moran. He was certain he had not been followed back to the hotel. He clenched at his hair. His mind was foggy and distracted from the pain.

He needed to think.

He stopped, and suddenly began to rifle through his bags, throwing his clothes around the room. He pulled out a small, wood box and opened it. Inside it was a vial and a needle.

He exhaled heavily as he sat curled up in the armchair, with his knees pulled to chest and his arms wrapped around his legs, his mind now wonderfully clear. Within thirty minutes, he had formulated a plan.

He immediately packed his backpack, leaving the rest of his belongings in the room. He had been sure to leave Sigerson's ID and passport on the nightstand, along with a bit of cash, and he threw the rest of his fake IDs in the backpack as well, along with all of his remaining cash. He was glad once more that his room was on the first floor as he threw open the window and climbed out, disappearing into the night.

The next morning, Sherlock smiled politely at the airport worker across the reception desk from him. He was at a rural Indian airport that was little more than a control tower and two paved runways. "We have a Cessna 150 and a Mooney Ovation 3 to rent, but the limit is two weeks," she informed him.

He beamed at her, and replied with an American accent, "That's perfect! I'll take the Mooney." He dug into his backpack and pulled out a check book, a FAA pilots license for an American named James Leonard and a flight plan and set them on the counter.

In twenty minutes, he had finished his pre-flight check and walked admiringly around the single-engine propeller-driven plane, parked just outside a taxiway. Mooney is an American civilian aircraft manufacturer, and their aircraft are renowned for top speeds disproportionate to their horsepower. The Ovation 3 is a low wing aircraft with retractable landing gear and an arrogant, vertical tail. Sherlock admired the sleek, beautiful machine, running his hand along the wing and tracing the red curve on the sportily painted airplane. Grabbing the handle above the wing, he pulled himself up onto the aircraft and into the cabin. He fastened his seat belt, and pulled a headset over his ear and adjusted the microphone. His eyes scanned over the controls and readings in the cockpit, and he turned on the radio, changing the frequency to the one the airport operated on.

Satisfied, he started the engine, and heard the dimmed sound of the cylinders power up. The propeller sprung into motion, and was soon a blur in front of the aircraft. "Tower, this is Mooney One Eight Niner Five Sierra Hotel requesting permission to take off," he spoke into the microphone, steering the plane slowly around to face the taxiway.

"Tower to Mooney Five Sierra Hotel, permission granted. Proceed on taxiway B to 36."

"Affirmative, Tower. Thank you." Sherlock released the brakes and the small plane eagerly lurched forward. He steered it down the taxiway, and situated the plane so it was facing straight down the runway. He released the brakes and pushed the throttle forward, and the engine responded immediately, and the little aircraft picked up speed quickly. He pulled back on the control wheel, and less than a minute later, he was in the air and retracting the landing gear.

John kept a firm hold of the journal as he walked through the park near Mycroft's office. He felt heavy, as if his limbs had gained extra mass in last day. John stopped on a street corner, and pulled his phone from his pocket, and texted Lestrade: "I have something you'll want to know about. Where can I meet you?"

As he crossed a street, he stopped in front of a newspaper display that reported the trail on the suspect of the Ronald Adair murder had gone cold.

Mycroft had stopped across the street, witnessing the movements of both John and the man tailing him. He phoned his assistant. The man following John was texting someone. When he was finished, he slid the phone into a pocket and felt around the inside of his coat. John had stopped and picked up a newspaper, but the man continued to walk towards him.

John sighed, frustrated with the investigation, frustrated with Mycroft and Sherlock, and frustrated with the recent upheaval of his previously quiet, but decidedly lonely, life. He discarded the newspaper, and pulled his phone from his pocket, and saw a text from Lestrade: "My office".

As John attempted to hail a cab, Mycroft thanked his assistant and ended the call. He walked briskly across the street, and closed the distance between himself and John's follower. He stood very close behind the middle-aged man, waiting. As John finally succeeded in hailing a cab the man reached into his coat, pulling a handgun out, but holding it to his side. He moved toward John, who was peering into the window, instructing the cabbie. Mycroft leapt quickly to the man, and pulled him violently into the alley behind the newspaper stand. He forced the man against the brick wall of the alley, and expertly disarmed him. Mycroft forcefully pressed his gun against the surprised man's temple. He glanced to his left and observed John's cab pulling away. He would be safe at Scotland Yard.

Mycroft redirected his attention to the man, who was staring wide-eyed at him. Mycroft smiled grimly and calmly informed him, "This is quite inconvenient for me. Now I have to decide what to do with you." The man grimaced. Mycroft continued, "Follow my instructions exactly, and I won't kill you." He paused, pursing his lips in thought, and then added, "Right at this moment, anyway." Mycroft pushed him harder against the wall, and demanded, "What is your interest in John Watson?" The man was silent, and Mycroft cocked his head disapprovingly, cocking the gun at the same time. He started breathing heavily, and replied, "I wasn't going to shoot him. I was just supposed to bring him back." Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "Interesting," he whispered to himself.

At that moment, a black sedan pulled up, and Mycroft grabbed the man's arm, turning him around. He pressed the gun into his back, underneath his jacket, and led him to the waiting vehicle.

"Good god," Lestrade mumbled to himself in his office, running his hand over the cover of the journal and looking at it as if it were an alien artefact. He suddenly stood up, pushing his chair back, and holding his head. He walked over to the window, and stared out of it for a good ten minutes, while John made a detailed study of the wall himself. Lestrade eventually sighed and turned around, acknowledging John again, a few shades paler than he was before.

"Shit," he cursed, and sat down heavily at his desk, his head in his hands. He looked up at John and said, "You have to go to Baker Street."

John's eyes widened, but he nodded. "We can't let this get out to the pre—," he started, but Lestrade cut him off.

"I know. God help me, but I'm keeping this under wraps. I'll meet you there later."

That evening, John stood awkwardly in the middle of his old living room, holding the journal. The flat was strangely clean. Without the presence of Sherlock, the place was not subjected to intermittent tornadoes of research, papers, books, and black moods. How dull, he pondered. He stared at the skull sitting on the mantle, as Mrs Hudson came up, bearing a tea tray.

"Here you go, dear," she said, setting the tray down and pouring two cups. She sat down, and John did the same. "It's so nice to see you, John," she smiled up at him, handing him his tea.

"I need to tell you something," John said, looking at the journal in his lap. She set her tea down, looking at John, observant as ever.

"What is it?"

A few minutes later John held her as she cried, then she pushed him away, and began waving her hands frantically. "What the hell was he thinking? Running around Europe all alone!" She sniffed, and wiped her eyes. "Always dashing off on his own, hiding everything." John almost smiled.

"Yes, I know."

"He's a bloody idiot! Getting himself into trouble without his friends to help him, thinking he was too clever to get caught!"

"Yes."

"And without his skull, too! Who did he yell at that whole time? And who made him tea when he had been out at all hours . . ." She trailed off, and ran back into John's arms. He smiled sadly and kissed the top of her head.

Mrs Hudson had begun to clear up an imaginary mess and John had resumed sitting and staring around the flat when Lestrade walked up the stairs. Mrs Hudson greeted him, glad to have something to do. She hurried to make more tea.

After a few minutes of talking, one thing was clear. They needed Mycroft's assistance.

"God, Greg," John complained, rubbing his face. "I might have . . . punched him in the face earlier today."

Lestrade sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Yes," the voice of Mycroft Holmes agreed, and he entered the room, swinging an umbrella. "You have a very effective right hook, John."

He strolled in and took a seat, crossing his legs. John and Lestrade stared at him, and Mrs Hudson beamed. "Hello, Mycroft!"

He smiled at her, and then looked directly at John, who appeared slightly ashamed. "But that doesn't mean I won't help you. The British government has a vested interest in seeing Sebastian Moran incapacitated." He paused, accepting tea from Mrs Hudson. John furrowed his eyebrows. After taking a sip, Mycroft continued, "As do I."

Lestrade cleared his throat. "So what do we do?"

Mycroft's eyes gleamed. "We follow the agents who are tailing John to Moran. John, you wouldn't mind, would you?"

His eyes snapped to Mycroft. "There are agents tailing me?" He paused. "Mind—mind what?"

Mycroft grinned, "Being our bait, of course."

John leaned back into his chair and echoed, "Of course," in mild disbelief.


	10. Canaries

After Mycroft had left, Lestrade stayed a few minutes longer, obviously apprehensive about tomorrow. Mrs Hudson muddled around in the kitchen, clearing away tea cups. Getting up to leave, Lestrade glanced at the journal that John had held throughout the entire conversation, and nodded at it. "He was a good man, in the end, wasn't he?" John looked up to Lestrade from his seat, his eyes wide. Lestrade paused for a moment, and then gave John a knowing half smile. "Well, in his own way." The statement produced an unexpected flood of emotion in John, who was momentarily overcome by pride for Sherlock and heartache that his most noble endeavour had been his last. He tried desperately to swallow the lump in his throat. Lestrade patted him on the back, and excused himself. Overhearing the conversation, Mrs Hudson quietly wiped away tears in the kitchen.

John had not been able to sleep that night, partially because being in Baker Street once more made him a little anxious. Mrs Hudson had gone to bed after Mycroft and Lestrade had left, but had pushed a bottle of wine into his hands before leaving. He had insisted he was fine, but accepted it anyway.

Twenty minutes later and holding a glass of wine, he peered into Sherlock's old room. He had only meant to just look, but he let the door swing open, and the light from the hallway cast long shadows over the boxes, which were erupting with glassware and papers. He slowly walked into the room, and ran his hand along a distillation apparatus rather forlornly. He spied the familiar microscope which his friend had undoubtedly acquired through illegitimate means, and toyed with a 500 mL round bottom flask absentmindedly as he sat down on the bare mattress of the bed.

Sipping his wine, he smiled at the periodic table on the wall and the chart of the Lyman series for several elements—a series of transitions and ultraviolet emission lines which illustrates the quantization of energy in atoms.

He had soon felt overwhelmed by Sherlock's room and had retreated back to the living room. John was not sure what he had expected to feel by going in there, but he had just wanted to see it again. He pulled one of Sherlock's books off the shelves in the living room and began reading it. It was a biography of Lavoisier, the French chemist. The books had all been left on the shelves, though they were arranged much neater than before. One of the shelves that had been dipping severely before had been replaced.

John realized then, by looking at the new book shelf, that Mrs Hudson was acting more like a grieving parent than a landlady. He supposed he had always known how she felt about Sherlock, but the new shelf made him feel guilty for leaving her, as much of a wreck as he had been at the time. She had been keeping the living room much like it had been before Sherlock had died, or rather faked his death and took off dismantling an international ring of criminals in order to save their lives, damning his reputation.

Being unable to focus on the biography, he sighed and picked up the journal again. He had already read it through once, but he was still amazed at it. Sherlock had kept it for him. It was filled more with explanations of his deductions and processes—an illustration of the artist at work— than with any sentimentality, but that was to be expected. A journal of Sherlock's overflowing with sentimentality would be an alarming thing indeed. Still, it was a comforting object. Sherlock knew how much John liked to hear about his cases before they had met, and knew John would be interested in the details of his adventures whilst deceased.

He flipped over the entries regarding the case about the agent in the chemistry lab in Marseilles. Sherlock had been brilliant. He had acquired a job as a lab technician, and posed as a university student from rural France. This had been done to eliminate any suspicion of a strange accent in Sherlock's French, which was remarkably fluent.

The details of Sherlock's entries were specific enough that if John wanted to, he could write up the case. Sherlock had remarked before that he should turn his collection of blog posts into "real writing". At first John had been offended, but had eventually acquiesced. He had yet to start these actual writings, because he had been busy at work and found it painful to revisit the past. He had found it necessary, in the wake of being shot at, to take a few weeks off work, and wondered if he should not start taking notes again.

He smiled at the open page in the journal: it was a diagram of the lab, with labels of where chemicals were stored and how much of everything there was. There were a few circles in red ink on the diagram, and underneath, in Sherlock's excited writing, which was messier than usual, was an exclamation, "A drum of toluene is missing today!" He imagined Sherlock clapping his hands in glee at this.

The entry continued on the next page: "I have also discovered that a few litres of sulphuric and nitric acid are missing as well. Any university student in an organic chemistry class would know [Not exactly, John thought] that these are the common substances used in the synthesis of trinitrotoluene—TNT. Chemists make wonderful criminals, John. They have the power to simply make what they need, be it poison or explosives. They have the power to manipulate atoms to do their bidding, and easy access to all of the necessary instruments and materials. They are intelligent. Oh yes, the chemists! They make my work so much more interesting." Here, John wished he had been there to glare sternly at him until he realized he was being insensitive. Not that it would have done any good, of course.

"Today, I will hide the remaining toluene, because Louis will need it for his recrystallization tomorrow. I should be able to observe who looks the most uncomfortable when he goes around asking for it. He has a very mean temperament when he cannot find his chemicals! I daresay the criminal is obviously not Louis, because he is far too careless with his lab notebooks and locker keys. I hope that I will be able to spot the suspect by his hands and arms. I am looking for a canary."

John could almost feel his friend's excitement in the next entry: "The man with the yellow-stained hands is undoubtedly our criminal. Painting, ha! He has a much more sinister agenda than that, I think. I should maybe explain, though perhaps you already know, John. Trinitrotoluene is toxic, and when one handles it with the bare hands for a prolonged period of time, a yellow discolouration of the skin occurs. The factory workers who made it during World War I experienced this phenomenon, and were dubbed 'canary girls'. Well, I have found my canary."

John smiled at this, and closed the journal. Extraordinary, he mused, and wondered at the racing of his heart after reading the entry. He missed it. He decided that it would be a shame if he did not write up Sherlock's cases properly, because he owed his friend the restoration of his reputation at least.

He then frowned, remembering something from the Lavoisier biography. He flipped through the pages, and saw a sketch of a canary being placed inside a glass chamber. Lavoisier had been a brilliant and creative scientist, who performed research in identifying gases, a remarkably difficult business. There were a few standard tests that he had implemented, one of which was placing a canary in chamber, and observing what effects the gases evolved over the course of a reaction had on it. Sometimes, the birds perished. "Poor sod," John commented looking at the picture of the bird trapped in the vessel. Yawning, he closed the book and swung his legs onto the couch, and finally drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, as John walked down the street, he received a text from Lestrade informing him that he had been able to acquire a few officers to help follow this lead into the whereabouts of Ronald Adair's murderer. The existence of the journal had been kept between Mycroft, John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade so far. Lestrade figured that the agents following John could have reasonably been found out without the journal. Mycroft had been helpful in that regard, though decidedly not in regard to sparing John from emotional distress.

His phone beeped again: "I have them in sight. Proceed to the next step—MH." Though Moran's agents would have maybe recognized police and government agents tailing them, they would not be looking for Mycroft Holmes, perhaps only for the simple reason that Mycroft Holmes did not involve himself in legwork. Lestrade's backup was currently on standby until they were able to pinpoint a location for Moran.

John, soothed a little by the presence of his gun in his waistband, quickly began to make preparations for the next part of the plan: lose them. Preferably without getting killed. Hopefully they would then try to make contact with Moran, either by phone, in which case Mycroft's valuable resources would be helpful, or even better, they would return to Moran in person to receive further instructions.

John hailed a cab. He gave a predetermined and arbitrary address, and when he reached that address, walked through a massive crowd and quickly hailed another cab, giving another predetermined address. He did this once more. At every checkpoint, he confirmed his location with Mycroft or Lestrade. They were alternating being present at his checkpoints, looking for the point at which Moran's agents would lose John.

He took the tube for a short distance, and then got off at the next stop. He headed for a crowded bookstore, pulling out his phone. As he was walking, someone ran into him quite hard, knocking his phone out of his hand. It scattered down the pavement. The person who ran into him must have been carrying a lot of books, as at least seven had ended up on the sidewalk as well. John leaned down to pick up his phone, as the old man who had run into him scowled and told him to "bloody well look out," and John glared, muttering, "Yeah, yes, alright," as he leaned over to pick up the books and give them back to the decrepit individual. John glanced at the titles, and saw one on poisons from plant derivatives, and another on Impressionism. He frowned, wondering about the eclectic selection. Before he could ponder any further on the matter, the man snatched the last book—something by Francis Bacon—out of his hands and limped away, muttering to himself. John rolled his eyes, and continued toward the bookstore.

Inside the bookstore, he ducked behind tall shelves of books, and the aisles were packed with people waiting for a copy of a new release. He discretely pulled a pair of glasses and a hat from his jacket. He then took off his jacket, revealing a blazer underneath. Discarding his jacket on the floor, he put the glasses and hat on, and quietly began to extricate himself from the mob of people. He saw Mycroft's assistant in the line waiting for him, in her usual black dress. He wasted no time in burying his face in her neck and grabbing her around the waist. They walked casually outside together, acting like a couple on a date.

She led him to the curve. A sedan appeared at that moment, and she and John tumbled in. John's phone beeped: "You've lost them. They are still in the bookstore—MH". John released her and leaned back in his seat, exhaling in relief. He took off the hat and glasses, and waited anxiously to join Mycroft and Lestrade.

He was dropped off at the edge of London in a deserted parking lot an hour later. Mycroft was waiting for him, and silently handed him his jacket. "Oh, cheers." John said, taking it and putting it on.

"Lestrade went ahead with two officers. We're to meet them up." John nodded, feeling the weight of his gun again.

They found Lestrade and his backup, and John spotted the two men immediately. It was beginning to turn dark, which made their concealment much easier.

The two men stopped at what looked like a group of abandoned flats in old brick buildings. The neighbourhood was well-enough deserted, and most of the windows John observed seemed to be boarded up. Broken glass littered the ground, and graffiti marked the dilapidated walls of the buildings.

They walked quietly to the edge of a building and peered around the corner. The two men entered one of them, and Lestrade indicated for his two officers to go around the back. Lestrade, John, and Mycroft approached the front cautiously. John and Lestrade pulled their guns. Mycroft strolled ahead to the door, pushing it back slowly. He paused for a moment to observe the lock. It had been changed recently, but was turned around, though a key could not be used from the inside. There was also a large combination lock on it, which was open. Frowning, he pushed the door further open, noting that it seemed quite heavy. His eyes narrowed at this, but he continued into the flat, moving silently. John and Lestrade followed him.

They turned down a dark hallway, with dirty, peeling walls. Mycroft turned into the living area, and stopped suddenly, observing the ancient room. A window had been put in recently. In fact, all of the windows he had observed on this floor were new. He looked around the flat urgently. It was completely silent. His eyes widened, and he turned suddenly to John and Lestrade, and whispered, "Get out!"

"What?" Lestrade asked.

"Get out!" Mycroft yelled, and began running toward them, shoving them in the direction of the door. "Tell your men to get away from the building!" He ordered Lestrade as they rushed for the door. As Lestrade gave the order on the radio, they came to the door, which they had left open. It was now shut. John tried the knob, and discovered what Mycroft already knew. It was locked. Mycroft had taken off down the hallway and into the kitchen.

The refrigerator had been pulled away from the wall, and strapped to the back was a bomb. He turned around and exited the room.

"They aren't replying," Lestrade informed them.

"They're probably dead," Mycroft replied over his shoulder, walking past Lestrade.

"A trap," John breathed in disbelief, and ran after Mycroft. "What do you think is going to happen?" Lestrade yelled after John, following him.

Mycroft came back, and exhaled heavily. "A bomb will go off." John's eyes snapped to Mycroft. "It's in the kitchen."

"We're going to get blown up?"

Mycroft didn't reply, and instead watched Lestrade aim and fire at a window. It absorbed the bullet.

"Polycarbonate," John commented. Mycroft nodded at him, unsurprised. Lestrade lowered his gun.

"They didn't want to kill us unless we came after them." Mycroft whispered to himself.

John heard, and studied his face. "Sorry, what?"

"Ah, of course!" He continued to himself, ignoring John, "It's going to happen very soon. They thought it would take us longer to figure it out and come back to the door. They wanted us to know what was going to happen to us, and why. Yes, interesting. They think we know—," he stopped suddenly, noticing John and Lestrade were staring at him.

"What about breaking down the door?" John suggested, as he and Lestrade ran over to it.

"No, I don't think so." Mycroft replied, not moving. He spied a figure moving outside. "Get away from the door!" He hissed at them.

John and Lestrade exchanged a look, but obeyed. They heard a crackling noise, and backed into the living room with Mycroft, concealing themselves behind the wall.

An explosion from directly behind the wall made Lestrade jump away, and John leapt in front of Mycroft, who had failed to move, pushing him down and attempting to protect him from the blast. Lestrade had hit the ground, covering his head. After it was over, they looked around, dazed momentarily. The blast had been too small.

"That was not—that couldn't have been the bomb," John mumbled, perplexed that he was still alive, and eyeing Mycroft, who was lying below him, for injuries. Mycroft suddenly jumped up, pushing John out of the way, and ran through the dust toward the source of the blast.

Lestrade and John paused for a second, and then leapt up after him. Coming around the corner, they ran straight into Mycroft's back. Mycroft was just standing in front of the explosion point, with dust and smoke swirling around him. Peering around his body, John and Lestrade found that the door was gone. Mycroft stood in front of the opening in the wall, staring. They exchanged a sideways glance, then shrugged, and walked towards it, grabbing Mycroft by the elbows and dragging him outside.

Looking around, they saw no indication of what had caused the door to be blown away. John motioned for Lestrade to take Mycroft away. "Get him out of here! We don't know when it's going to detonate. I'll look for your officers." Lestrade hesitated a moment. "Go!" John ordered, running around back. Lestrade nodded, and began running to safety with Mycroft.

"Be quick about it!" He yelled over his shoulder. When John reached the back of the building, he whirled around, confused. They were gone. He ran around the other side of the building, but could not find them.

"Over here!" Lestrade yelled, about seventy metres away from the building. "They're still alive!" John furrowed his brow, but glad to get away from the building, sprinted toward Mycroft and Lestrade. When he had gone about ten metres, a massive explosion knocked him to the ground. He felt the searing heat wave crash over his body, and remembered nothing else.


	11. The Old Man

**In this chapter and the next, I will be using some quotes from the original stories, and I'm not trying to pretend those words are my own. **

* * *

John had been released from the hospital after 24 hours of observation with a minor concussion, and various small burns and bruises. With the concussion, it had been decided that he would stay at Baker Street under the meticulous observation of Mrs Hudson, and was predictably showered with several lovely cups of tea throughout the day. He was still nauseous enough to forgo eating, but he managed to lounge on the sofa, making notes of the case so far. He was tired and needed to take breaks fairly often, and Mrs Hudson had chided him more than once for working too much, even though he had only been working for a few hours.

Setting down his pen and notebook, he rubbed his eyes, yawning. His entire body was sore, but he was determined to attempt an explanation for some of the unanswered questions in the case. Unfortunately, he had not made a great deal of progress, and more questions had arisen than answers. He pulled the blanket Mrs Hudson had given him off the back of the sofa and wrapped it around his bruised body. He eyed the lamp on the table, but decided to leave it on, too tired to get up to switch it off. He lowered his body onto the sofa and closed his eyes. It was only about 7:00 in the evening, but he was fatigued, and the pain medicine only increased his drowsiness. Within minutes, he was snoring quietly into the back of the sofa.

Sherlock's journal was lying open on the coffee table, flipped to an entry made a year after his death.

"After a year of disentangling Moriarty's infernal web of agents, I am hardly surprised to find that the work is far from finished. His reach plunges deeper than even I had realized, and I recall telling you that Moriarty was responsible for most of theremarkable unsolved crimes in London (and Mycroft for many of the others). I have learned that someone has stepped in to fill his shoes—someone else is pulling the strings in the web, and I have thus far been unable to identify that person. He is described as Moriarty was: a shadow in the dark, a whisper of something powerful. No one has direct contact. I cannot rest until I have found him, because until I do, I can never hope to return safely.

"Mycroft has called me back to London, and in light of the new information, we have more strategy work to do. We had anticipated tracking an unorganised group of rogue agents, but the situation is more dangerous than that: they are coordinating and focusing their power.

"My brother has informed me that tomorrow will be exactly a year since I dove off the roof of St. Bart's. I think he expects me to be sentimental about it, but why should an arbitrary day matter to me? It holds no significance. People care so much about dates and anniversaries, and it really is all rubbish. But I suppose that you would care—

"'DONATE MY SCIENCE EQUIPMENT TO A SCHOOL!?' This will not do. Mycroft is supposed to have taken care of all that! And John, are you even sleeping? I have no idea why you would not be taking care of yourself. You are not looking well.

"About what you said

"What you said, I think, I feel like [this was scratched out]

"You probably would not have said those things if you thought I had been listening, but since I did hear them, [the next fragment was also scratched out] I am sorry to have caused I

"Thank you.

"But it is a complete absurdity that you were speaking to a headstone. Do you have any idea who is actually buried there?"

After Mycroft had satisfied himself to John's care, he went out in search of the old man at the bookstore. The collision with John had made Mycroft uncomfortable. Perhaps the old man knew something about the trap. He had searched John's discarded jacket, but found no evidence of anything planted there. Still, it bothered him, and he had sent his own agents out to find him. So far, they had little success. That in itself was suspicious to Mycroft, and he had then implemented Sherlock's homeless network, but the old man still could not be found. Mycroft had the feeling that the old man would reveal himself only at his own leisure.

Mycroft sensed that he had seen this particular man before, but he was having trouble placing him. He leaned back in his office chair behind his desk, steepled his hands, and closed his eyes. He just needed to find his way back to the first time he had seen that hunched figure with the dirty face.

He remained motionless for another hour, his face and posture calm. Suddenly, his eyes snapped open, wide and alert. He had seen the old man on the bench, sitting next to John's tail the day John had run from his office, the day John had punched him the face, he recalled, absentmindedly rubbing the place where he had been hit. He jumped out of his seat.

Moran's abducted agent, Kirby Jones, had been kept in government custody. The door to his cell opened and closed as Mycroft entered, shrugging off his suit jacket. He draped the jacket over his forearms, and stood in front of the sitting Jones, looking down at him.

"Does your employer often use old men to trip up his tails when you all fall behind?"

Jones furrowed his brow, and shook his head. "I don't know what you are talking about."

"An old man was present, along with two other of Moran's agents, following John Watson. Who is he?"

"I don't know. How should I know?"

"Who is the old man? I've spotted him twice now. Who is he?" Mycroft asked, slowly and menacingly.

"I—I don't know of an old man." Jones shifted in his seat uncomfortably. Mycroft gazed at the prisoner's face calmly, and looked unbearably bored. Jones trembled. Mycroft took a step towards him, and Jones sat bolt upright, his eyes wide.

"I see," Mycroft said to himself. He turned and exited the room. The door closed with a loud, metallic bang that echoed throughout the holding cell.

As John slept upstairs, Mrs Hudson was getting ready for bed with the television blaring in the other room when a knock on the door interrupted her. Wrapping a robe around herself, she opened the door to a hunched old man, who was carrying a bag of books. Removing his torn hat to reveal tangled white hair and a grimy face, he smiled at her, and asked in a croaking voice, "May I have a word with you ma'am? It's concerning John Watson."

Mrs Hudson nodded, opening the door to allow the man in. "You must be one of his patients. He is a little indisposed at the moment, but I'll be happy to take a message for him." She smiled sympathetically at him as she noticed his terrible limp, and ushered him towards a seat in the hall, dashing off to grab some paper.

"Yes," the man agreed, "I heard about what happened, and I don't want to disturb him." He took the paper from her, and it shook in his trembling hands, which were covered with tattered fingerless gloves. He set the paper and pen on the ground, and stood up slowly. "I am going to do something, and I want you to remain extremely quiet as I do it. It is essential that you do not scream. I'm not going to hurt you," the man said, holding up his hands, his low voice gentle. "I just want to show you something."

Twenty minutes later, the man let himself quietly in to 221B. Mrs Hudson had gone up to check on John an hour before, and had turned off the lamp, tucking the blanket around his still body. The room was dark, but the man spotted the lump on the sofa immediately, and walked cautiously over to it, kneeling t in front of the sleeping form. John had cast his blanket off, and flipped over, his face halfway buried in the sofa, and his body facing the coffee table. Some street light filtered through the window, and illuminated John's face.

The old man reached for the blanket, and tenderly covered John's shoulders with it. He reached out and cupped John's cheek with a shaking hand, his breathing laboured and heavy. Slowly, he ran his hand over John's cheekbone, and into his short, blonde hair, mesmerized. His eyes were filled with tears, and he gasped at his own emotion.

A hand shot from the dark behind him and wrapped around the old man's wrist. The old man did not turn around, but whispered, his eyes remaining on John's face, "You're losing your touch, Mycroft."

Mycroft Holmes dragged the man up and away from John wordlessly, and shoved him into the hallway, closing the door quietly behind them. John remained soundly asleep, and snuggled himself further underneath the blanket.

In the dimly lit hallway, Mycroft regarded the old man, and then demanded in a low voice, "What do you think you are doing here?"

The man tutted at Mycroft, folding his arms. "Well, it's not as if you lot can manage to stay alive without my help." Mycroft rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"That was very reckless of you," Mycroft continued, not addressing the jab. He exhaled heavily, and leaned against the wall, looking uncharacteristically worn. He glanced at the old man, and laid a hand on his shoulder. "I thought—I thought you were," he stopped, shaking his head. "Well, never mind."

The man cocked his head, curious. "Yes, well, I'm not."

"No."

"Obviously," they said simultaneously. The old man cleared his throat uncomfortably, and scratched his head.

"Would you mind closing the blinds for me in the living room? I would rather not be seen."

"You can't stay."

"I am. There's no other way."

Mycroft eventually sighed and nodded, and quietly entered the living room.

In the very early hours of the morning, John struggled to open his eyes, moaning. Mrs Hudson placed a steaming cup of tea in front of him, and patted his shoulder.

"What are you still doing up?" He question in a hoarse voice, checking his watch.

"I had a visitor," she replied, wringing her hands nervously. John narrowed his eyes at her.

"Who was it?"

"Well," she bit her lip, and glanced at the door. "It was for you, actually. He's downstairs. Should I fetch him?"

John pushed himself upright, and choked back a gasp because of the pain from the sudden motion. He nodded at her, slightly winded.

As Mrs Hudson disappeared downstairs, John contemplated getting up to fix his messy hair, but upon leaning forward, his body gave violent protestations and he thought better of it. Instead, he pulled the blanket around his shoulders and reached for the tea. Peering over the rim of the cup, he noticed a hunched figure in the doorway, and regarded the man curiously. Only a single lamp was lit in the room, and the figure was little more than a silhouette.

"Hello?" John called out, but the man did not reply. He limped into the room, carrying the bag of books. John looked at the man a moment, when he was standing in front of him, and motioned for him to take a seat. The man shook his head, and waved John off.

"No, no, I won't be long," the man croaked out in a deep, hoarse voice.

"Ok," John replied, "What can I do for you?" John squinted at the man's face. "Don't I know you?"

The man stared at John for a long moment, before reaching into his bag and pulling out a book. He handed it to John.

He took it and examined the title, his mouth making an 'o'. The book was a collection of writings by Francis Bacon. "You're the man from the bookstore." John stared at the book, confused. "But why," he started, glancing back up at the man, but stopped and cried out in shock, jumping up.

The man was no longer there, and instead Sherlock Holmes stood before him, smiling, holding a wig and various facial parts, stretching his back and legs. "It is no joke when a tall man has to take a foot off his stature for several hours on end!" He exclaimed. John's eyes were wide and disbelieving.

"Oh my god," John muttered, staring at Sherlock in amazement. "Oh my god," He repeated, and Sherlock gave him a tentative grin. "You're alive," he whispered, a grey mist swirling before his eyes. He began to sway on his feet. Sherlock frowned at John's dazed expression.

"Yes, as are you, no thanks to Mycroft!" Sherlock replied, agitated.

John nodded dumbly, and, noting his concussion, lack of food, and the biggest shock of his life, began to comprehend the implications of the persistent grey mist, which continued its encroachment upon his vision. The room began to spin, and John felt around for some kind of support. Sherlock studied John's face, and his frown deepened. John swayed again, mumbling, "Sher—Sherlock."

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed in alarm, but John had started to slump forward. Sherlock leapt in front of him, catching his body just as he lost consciousness.


	12. Back to the Old House

After a few long minutes, John cracked his eyes open, disoriented. At first, he had no idea of where he was or what had happened. Alarmed, he sat up in a hurry, yanking his head around, but his body ran into a firm pair of hands and a torso. The hands prevented him from standing up, and pushed him firmly back into a sitting position.

"Alright, you're alright," a familiar voice soothed, and a familiar face appeared in his vision. Sherlock was kneeling next to John, holding him steadily by his shoulders. His memory of the old man turning into Sherlock Holmes came crashing back to him. He grasped Sherlock's skinny arm, studying his face and catching the eyes of his friend, which were dancing in the warm glow of the lamp. John took in Sherlock's appearance, noting that his pallor was more distinctive and his sharp cheekbones seemed to stand out more than they used to.

"I believe I owe you many apologies, John," he stated, looking uncomfortable.

"My god," John breathed, tightening his grip on Sherlock's arm. Sherlock smiled tightly at him, not releasing his hold on the startled man. John's desperate, wide eyes searched Sherlock's face, as if searching for confirmation that the object holding on to him was indeed the physical form of his estranged best friend. "Have I died? Am I actually alive right at this moment? Are you actually alive right at this moment?" John asked in a choked, awed voice, his eyes locked on those of the detective. His heart raced and he felt lightheaded once again.

Sherlock, looking pale and tired, did not immediately answer John. Instead, he studied John's face, but found a perplexing show of several emotions: astonishment, grief, joy, admiration, and finally anger. "I'm so sorry," he murmured, dropping one of his hands from John's shoulder to cover one of the shaking hands of his friend. "Please believe that there was no other way; I could not afford to spare your feelings," he sniffed after this, and looked down at their hands. John had not moved. "Forgive me," he added, lifting his eyes to John's.

John tried hopelessly to understand all that had happened in the last few weeks. He moved his hand. "You . . ." he started, backing away and trailing off. He started breathing heavily, and he blinked away disbelieving, frustrated tears. "You let me believe . . ." He suddenly fixed a hard stare at Sherlock. "I thought you were dead. You fucking horrible ma—" He stopped suddenly, and shaking his head, jumped to his feet, pushing Sherlock aside. He paced around, running his hands through his hair. "This is," he said, stopping and regarding Sherlock on the floor, "This is unbelievable. How?" He demanded, "How did you do it?"

Sherlock swallowed noticeably, and averted his gaze. "How—how did I do what?"

"Don't. You know what. Jesus, Sherlock."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in confusion, pushing himself up from the floor and sitting down on the sofa. "John, I—"

"No, sorry, I need a moment," he cut Sherlock off, resting his hands on the back of his head, and turning to face the wall.

"Are you alright?"

"Perfectly fine, thanks," John said icily, exhaling nervously. "I just need a minute."

A half second might have passed before Sherlock spoke again. "I thought you might have been glad to see me," he said, swinging his legs up onto the sofa, crossing his ankles and leaning back. He closed his eyes and steepled his fingers underneath his chin.

John whirled around angrily to face Sherlock. "Oh, no, no, no, no!" He exclaimed, and stalked over to Sherlock's relaxed body, pointing an accusatory index finger in his direction. "You do not get to patronize me!"

"Mmm." Sherlock replied condescendingly, not moving a single muscle. John's eyes, already wide, seemed to impossibly grow in diameter at his flippancy. A familiar frustration overtook him as he glared at Sherlock.

His impertinent noise having been met with silence, Sherlock popped an eye open and glanced in John's general direction. "Something wrong?" John opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment, Lestrade burst into the room, followed by Mycroft and Mrs Hudson. John whirled around to the face the wall, crossing his arms and trying to regain control of his emotions. He felt his face flush, and he was surprised to find that his eyes had welled up with tears, and he stubbornly blinked them away.

"Jesus Christ," Lestrade mumbled upon spotting Sherlock, stopping in his path. Mycroft regarded him curiously, and then discreetly pulled a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket, silently handing one to Lestrade, who accepted it without a word and barely a glance.

"Hello, Lestrade," Sherlock called from the sofa, not moving or opening his eyes. "Mycroft."

Mycroft smirked as he graciously lit the cigarette for Lestrade, and turned to Sherlock, observing in a smooth and calm voice, "I'm happy to see that you have resumed your old habits of mistreating Dr Watson." He claimed a chair and sat, crossing his legs and looking generally bored.

John's shoulders stiffened, but he did not turn around. Mrs Hudson tutted and walked over to him, placing a hand on his back. "Sherlock Holmes!" She exclaimed, "Don't you dare upset John! All he's been through, with you—"

"I'm quite alright, thanks," John interrupted, flashing a tight, fake grin. She smiled sympathetically back.

Sherlock waved a hand in the air dismissively. "John upsets himself, Mrs Hudson." John inwardly scoffed in disbelief at this, but did not reply, and continued to stare steadfastly at the wall.

"I believe that we have a bit of work to do," Mycroft announced, studying his hands idly.

"Yes, quite so!" Sherlock exclaimed, jumping up from the sofa and rubbing his hands together. He started pacing around, and then stopped abruptly in front of Mycroft.

"Have you brought my things?"

"Yes, just as you wanted," he replied, handing Sherlock a large overnight bag. He beamed at his brother, and tore the bag open. He removed a change of clothes, his shoes, scarf and his old coat.

"Oh, yes!" he cried out, tucking the clothes under his arm. He rummaged a little further and pulled out his dressing grown triumphantly. He leapt up and dashed out of the room, removing the old man's shirt and tossing it behind him as he ran up the stairs and into the bathroom.

As he retreated, John noticed several bruises and cuts on his arms and back, and the splint on his wrist. He furrowed his brow in concern and bit his lip, but he remained silent. He almost felt guilty for yelling at Sherlock. He still had no idea what had happened in India, and given Sherlock's considerable gift for secrecy, he wondered if he would ever know. A wave of fatigue crashed over his tired and abused body, and realizing how shaky he was, he found a seat on the sofa. A glass of water and a pain pill materialized before him. Mrs Hudson really was a saint, he imagined, accepting them gratefully.

Mycroft and Lestrade sat in silence, and John waited for the pain medicine to take effect. His head had started to hurt again, and he felt exhausted from the concussion, the soreness, and the emotional rollercoaster that was currently his life. He leaned his head back, and in a few more minutes, he was fighting valiantly to stay awake. It was a battle which he was destined to lose.

While drifting in and out of sleep, John heard soft voices conversing in the room, and at one point made out a heated exchange between Mycroft and Sherlock.

"He is hurt, Sherlock. Besides, you don't honestly think that things will go back to normal now, do you? He has his own life."

"I need an assistant," Sherlock snarled back.

"Someone else can be found."

"No! I don't want anybody else."

"I would say that he would decline to help you, but I think we both know that's not going to happen because you—"

Lestrade interrupted at this point: "Sherlock, you're putting him in danger. He just got blown up, for Christ's sake."

"No, he almost got blown up, but didn't, because thankfully someone was smarter than you all and realized that kidnapping one of Moran's agents would provoke a few red flags."

"How do you know Moran will try to personally assassinate you?" Lestrade asked, steering the conversation back to planning and away from Sherlock accusing people of stupidity.

"He has to, obviously, just as Moriarty had to personally meet me on the roof. His work remains unfinished as long as I am alive."

"They don't know for sure you are alive," Lestrade pointed out.

"No, but they will. Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes, it must be done immediately. Tomorrow evening, I'm going to walk out on the sidewalk and show them my face."

"You cannot be serious." There was a pause after this. "Great, that's fantastic," Lestrade continued, evidently convinced of Sherlock's sincerity. "Once they know you are alive, no one is safe."

"Yes. I fully expect Moran to try and kill me tomorrow night. If he fails, I can personally assure you he that he will not be given a second opportunity. No matter the outcome, you all will be safe after tomorrow. Until then, as best as you can manage, I need you lot to kindly refrain from doing something stupid like giving me away and getting yourselves killed." After this, Sherlock said no more on the subject, and Lestrade eventually gave up trying to obtain any more information from him, but remained disgruntled. Sherlock rudely assured him he would phone when he needed his assistance. That was the last bit of conversation John overheard before dozing off again.

When John finally awoke, he sensed that some time had passed. He sighed tiredly, realizing he was lying on the sofa with a warm blanket tucked around him. A dim light glowed in the room, but there was no noise. He supposed that Lestrade and Mycroft had left, and was glad for that. Still, he did not open his eyes, and instead basked in the haze of the pain meds and the foggy mindedness of fatigue.

"You're awake," Sherlock's deep voice observed. John turned into the sofa, refusing to open his eyes. He just wanted to avoid Sherlock, at least for now, but the temptation of a glass of water was proving difficult to resist. "Here's some water for you," the familiar voice informed him, much closer than it had been. John slowly sat up a bit, propping his body on his elbows and opening his eyes. He was initially taken aback to find that Sherlock was looming over him with a book in one hand and a glass of water in the other, wearing ill-fitting pyjama pants, a t-shirt and his dressing gown. John accepted the water, bleary eyed and silent. Sherlock returned to his seat, and continued reading. John eagerly sipped the water, but did not take his eyes off of the figure curled up in the arm chair. Sherlock had obviously been there the entire time he had been sleeping. John wasn't sure how he felt about that, but there was a small part of him that was glad Sherlock at least seemed to still care about him.

"What happened to you?" He asked, breaking the silence and placing the empty glass on the floor. Sherlock's eyes halted from their rapid scanning of the book page, and snapped to John.

"Sorry, what?"

"You're hurt," he said, nodding to his wrist.

"Hmm, yes." Sherlock replied, disinterested, and resumed reading. John sighed and, feeling cold and slightly insecure, pulled the blanket tightly around his shoulders. He studied Sherlock. His hair and his eyes were exactly as he remembered: his hair was still wavy and black, parted to the side and his eyes still bright and intelligent. He was alarmingly pale, though, and looked almost ill, even more so than John recalled. He was also thinner, somehow, and he looked frail, sitting in the large armchair with his thin knees drawn up and the book resting on top of them, and his dressing gown wrapped around his body.

"You were running." John observed. He had spoken quietly, but the words pierced the silence in the room, and they hit Sherlock forcefully. He paused, but did not lower his book. John cleared his throat, and then continued, sitting up fully and placing his bare feet on the floor. "You were running," he repeated, and thought he saw Sherlock swallow, even though he continued his reading. "You were scared, weren't you?" John pried some more, wanting answers. Sherlock felt like his hand was trembling, but he hoped it was imperceptible. He chalked it up to fatigue: it was merely his body catching up with him. John noticed the book shake a little, and he raised his eyebrows. Sherlock spied this, and lowered the book.

"Are you really sure you want to discuss this now? I know I gave you a shock."

"Yes," John replied, immediately. "I have to know." He glanced down, a little embarrassed by the confession, though he could not place the reason for it. "I just . . . please." Sherlock studied him intensely for a moment, and John felt as if Sherlock's eyes were either burning holes in him or looking directly through him.

"I'm surprised you haven't put it together yet."

John remained silent, but hardened his gaze.

"Well," Sherlock started, abandoning his book and adjusting himself so that he was facing John. "I assume you received the journal, and so you must think I managed to survive the encounter with Moran that I had alluded to. I am still alive precisely because there was no encounter with Moran. He was here trying to kill you because he had discovered that I was still alive, thanks to the frankly overwhelming incompetence of a few of Mycroft's agents. My disappearance ensured that he could not follow through on his orders from our dear friend Jim, because he had no way of knowing whether or not I had survived, though I daresay he is clever enough to know by now that I did."

"No, Sherlock," John said, annoyed, "Even by employing my own meagre and simple brain cells, I figured all that out." Sherlock managed to look insultingly surprised at this revelation. John glared at him and continued, "What I want to know," he said, leaning forward, "Is what happened in India. How did you manage to disappear in such a way that Moran's agents didn't know whether you were alive or not, all while simultaneously fleeing the country?"

Sherlock met John's stern gaze with wide eyes. This expression seemed to only last for a microsecond, however, as Sherlock suddenly sprang out of his chair and headed for the kitchen, snatching John's empty water glass off the floor on the way. "I think I may require your assistance tomorrow night regarding our little problem of Colonel Moran," he said over his shoulder. While filling the glass he called from the kitchen nonchalantly, "Do you think you are well enough to help me?"

John made a small, stifled noise, and exhaled in frustration. He was a little hurt by Sherlock's blatant disregard for his question. He thought that something bad had happened, simply because Sherlock was hiding the origins of his injuries. Sherlock stalked back into the room, his dressing gown flowing behind his wraithlike figure, and silently handed John the glass of water, not bothered in the least by John's silence. John accepted the water, staring incredulously up at Sherlock, who merely flashed him a tight and completely insincere grin. Setting the glass on the ground, he quickly grabbed Sherlock's arm, standing up and dragging the taller man closer to him. John's face was hard as he searched Sherlock's, and he roughly rolled up the sleeve to the dressing gown, revealing the splint. Sherlock did not move or resist, but rather watched John curiously and silently. John turned over the wrist, inspecting it. He began to remove the splint, and Sherlock stiffened, but did nothing else. John then unwrapped the bandages around the wrist, revealing colourful, dark bruising and the swollen area where the break had occurred. He ran his fingers over it, satisfying himself to the set. Sherlock's gaze did not waver.

"You fell," John observed, turning Sherlock's arm over again. "You were running from something, and you fell. You tried to catch yourself. What were you running from?" He asked softly, meeting Sherlock's eyes again. Sherlock grinned at him, his eyes gleaming, not removing his wrist from John's grip.

"I wasn't running from something, John. I was running to something." John furrowed his brow, but indicated for Sherlock to sit down as he reapplied the splint.

"What do you mean?" He eventually asked, finishing the splint. Sherlock merely gazed at him, saying nothing. Instead, he stood up and returned to his seat. He snatched up his book and pulled his knees to his chest, resuming the exact position he was in earlier. John knew he would say nothing else for the remainder of the night.

Nevertheless, feeling himself slipping back into a familiar role, he looked over at Sherlock, who was reading silently, and who was alive, quite alive, and had requested his help. John swallowed, and in a voice that was a little unsteady and shook more than he wanted, spoke to the human statue across the room. "Sherlock, you know that I'll help you. Of course I'll help you."

Sherlock didn't speak, but looked up at John, nodding almost imperceptibly, and John was glad to see the faintest hint of a grin cross his otherwise expressionless face as he resumed his reading.


	13. Guilt

Sherlock peered over the top of his book to regard John's once-more sleeping figure on the sofa. Though his face was expressionless, his thoughts were in turmoil. John Watson was normal in many ways. For example, he got along with people fairly well, he was nice most of the time, he observed social customs by dating and going to the pub, he had a pretty traditional view of morality, and he wore jumpers a lot. Even in light of this normalcy, there were parts of his personality that were extraordinary. Sherlock believed this to be why, when they first met, John stuck around when no one else—indeed, most normal people—would have left. Sherlock knew he was frustrating, even intolerable at times. He knew people didn't like him, and they certainly did not choose to spend time with him. But John, John saw something in Sherlock that was worth befriending him for, though Sherlock was not sure exactly what that might be. Everyone was aware of his abilities. John seemed to admire him for something other than that, but Sherlock worried that John had been profoundly mistaken in doing so. He had not expected his friendship with John to worry him so much, but he found that it was troubling him greatly tonight. He was anxious, and he tapped his fingers on the cover of his book as he remained lost in thought, staring at the warmly glowing embers of the dwindling fire.

Part of him could not help but be ecstatic to be sitting in the living room of his old flat. He had yearned for this moment for three harrowing, chaotic, dangerous, and lonely years. Sitting in the same room as John did indeed take some of the edge off. John had agreed to help him, just as Mycroft had said. This sat uneasily with Sherlock. He was not all that John thought he was, and if John only knew . . . he supposed he should just be grateful for John's assistance, but something was gnawing relentlessly at his mind, casting a cloud over the complete joy that should fill him at the thought of reclaiming his life. He was shocked to realize that it was not Sebastian Moran, or tomorrow's task that was causing his apprehension. It had to do with John, and how he had agreed to help him.

Wishing to temporarily ignore the unpleasant feeling, Sherlock padded into the kitchen intending to obtain some much-needed alcohol. He wanted to sleep at least a little before embarking on tomorrow's adventures. He was surprised to find his favourite scotch sitting in the cupboard, exactly where John used to keep it. It was a new bottle. His stomach seemed to contract painfully at this, but he disregarded it and poured himself a glass.

Curled up in the armchair three glasses later, Sherlock noted dimly that between the alcohol and his meagre diet, he was almost drunk and extremely exhausted. He turned his head, which was resting lazily on the arm of the chair, to look at John. His friend had not moved, but continued to sleep soundly. The soft light cast by the dying fire illuminated his forehead, as he was sleeping on his side, facing the room. Sherlock observed, not for the first time that day, the large bruise on his head and cut on his eyebrow, earned during his fall from the explosion in the abandoned building. He closed his eyes and tucked his arms around his torso, succumbing to the demands of his fatigued body. As he was drifting off to sleep, it struck him that the feeling he had been plaguing him all night was nothing other than guilt.

Though he was not cold, Sherlock knew instinctively that the gusting wind was gelid, tossing tufts of white, powdery snow up into the air from their icy resting places. The sky was blindingly blue and the sun was shining brightly on the ground, completely covered with glistening snow. As he looked around, he could see nothing but white, nothing but looming, icy plateaus and blue-white ice formations. He glanced down, studying his shoes. He thought that he probably should have worn something more practical. The snow might ruin them.

He began to walk cautiously forward, tightening his coat around his body. He spotted some marks in the snow, and he knelt down to inspect them. There was a set of footprints underneath a larger scuffled mark, and they appeared to be from a small man wearing an expensive pair of shoes. They were facing backward, but the shallowness of the heel impression in the snow indicated the man had been walking backwards. It suddenly occurred to him that the other marks which partially obscured the footprints were those of a body being dragged through the snow. Pulling his magnifying glass from his coat, Sherlock threw himself on the ground, interrogating the marks. On one side he found a few small lines of blood, next to the marks. Satisfied he could gain nothing more from the marks he raised himself from the ground and followed them.

It seemed as if he had suddenly travelled a very great distance, and Sherlock again lowered himself to inspect the marks. The weight of the blood had grown, and it was visible from a standing position, a large, morbid stain on the white ground. He ran his fingers through the blood, and they came away with the substance: this had been done recently. He jumped up from the ground and raced after the marks. The injured person was possibly still alive.

The wind had picked up, but Sherlock continued running, and soon he spotted the dark form lying in the snow. He sprinted towards it, and crashed down on his knees next to the body, turning it over. He inadvertently cried out in shock, because the face had been shot and was an unrecognizable and gory mess. He recognized the clothes as belonging to the man he had killed in India. He got up and staggered backward, in shock.

He bumped into something, and whirled around. It was Mycroft, who was regarding a smoking gun curiously in his hands. He raised his eyebrows when he saw Sherlock's uncustomary loss of composure. "Well," Mycroft said, "You are almost acting as if you're appalled."

Sherlock whirled around, searching for the tracks, which continued forward. "These aren't yours. Where are your footprints?" He demanded.

Mycroft only smiled knowingly, as if it were perfectly natural for him to walk and leave no trace of it. Sherlock pressed him further, "Who has been here? Who dragged the body?"

Mycroft tutted at him, shaking his head slightly, "Sherlock, do you really not see the other footprints?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow, and searched the snow futilely. One track led away from the brothers. He shook his head. "There's only one set!"

Mycroft smiled sadly, and handed Sherlock the gun, which he accepted, puzzled. Mycroft spoke calmly, "You missed something. Caring is not an advantage, dear brother."

Sherlock stared at his older sibling for a long moment, his eyes wide and alarmed. He dropped the gun in the snow, and stifled the panic rising in his chest. Turning away from Mycroft, he dashed after the tracks. He ran for a long time through the snow. He ran and felt no pain. He came eventually to the edge of a massive, snowy cliff. He walked slowly to the precipice, and peered over. Several hundred feet below was dark, icy water, dotted with deceitful icebergs poking their tops above the choppy surface, lapped at the edge. All he could see ahead was more water and sky, and all he could see behind him was white, snowy land—an abyss in all directions. As he turned to his left, he was taken aback to see two figures standing not twenty metres from him, near the edge of the cliff. He had not noticed them before. He was also startled to find tracks had formed in front of him, leading to the two men, though he could only see one set. This made him incredibly uneasy, and he squinted to see through the whirling snow, the wind teasing his hair out of place. The sunlight reflected brightly off of the snow in the air, and he could only make out two blurry forms. They were completely still. He moved toward the two silhouettes.

"Oh, I thought you'd never make it!" A soft, peculiar voice travelled across the short remaining distance, freezing Sherlock in place.

"How can this be?" Sherlock whispered to himself, advancing forward. He froze again. "John!" The panic returned more forcefully. Jim Moriarty stood in a posh suit and tie, elbows linked with John as if they were friends on a stroll. Moriarty was smiling absurdly and John looked to Sherlock, fear in his eyes but with steady hands.

"Tell me, Sherlock," Moriarty started, his big eyes searching the detective's face, "How's it been for you, staying alive?" Sherlock said nothing at first, his eyes locked on John. Moriarty shrugged at the non-response, and continued, "What I'm really dying to know, though, is whether you really believe you are like me." He smiled at Sherlock, and patted John lightly on the arm. John stiffened and his eyes shot to Sherlock's. Sherlock was no longer looking at John, however. He was focused entirely on Moriarty.

"There are a few glaring differences," Sherlock observed dryly.

Moriarty beamed at Sherlock, nodding, "Yes, of course. But we both know that's not interesting." His face suddenly hardened, and for the first time in the conversation he looked like someone capable of all that he had done. "What would you do, if you knew that no matter what, John Watson would die today?" John inhaled sharply at this, and he looked to Sherlock, whose face was suddenly devoid of emotion. A wall had come down. As soon as it had appeared, Moriarty's seriousness vanished. He smiled gleefully. "You see," he continued, releasing John and walking to stand in front of Sherlock, their faces centimetres apart. "You see, I think you have a weakness where I have none. And what I'm going to do is I'm going to burn a hole right through you," he punctuated this with a delicate tap to Sherlock's heart, "And then I'm going stomp on the wound until you are nothing. I am going to destroy you, Sherlock. And then you'll thank me."

"Because you'll be doing me a favour," Sherlock spat out. Moriarty nodded in agreement. At this John started toward Moriarty and Sherlock felt a horrible, cold, terror crash over him. "John, no! Stay where you are!" He yelled, holding his hands up to stop him. John halted, but his face clearly reflected the internal anguish he was experiencing. Moriarty resumed his seriousness, and lent near Sherlock's ear, and spoke softly.

"He's going to die because of you, because of his loyalty to you." He leaned back, grinning. He said louder, so John could hear, "Is he really so naïve to think that you would save him? Oh, it's so adorable, isn't it, how gullible they are. Maybe you even believed it yourself. It's just a passing fancy, Sherlock. I'm helping you, because Sherlock Holmes is not one of the angels. He's like me. He's not even human." He spat out the last word, and turned to John to gauge his reaction. John's face had fallen, and Sherlock's heart slammed into his chest. He blinked rapidly, trying to formulate a plan. He could think of nothing. Moriarty addressed him again, "You're me, except I'm better. I have no John Watson." Sherlock raised his chin almost defiantly, but his insides were frozen. "And now," Moriarty raised his eyebrows, meeting Sherlock's eyes, "Neither do you."

A shot rang through the air and John cried out in pain, crumpling to the ground, holding his chest. Sherlock was frozen in place. Moriarty turned to him, grasping his shoulders, and in an upbeat, sincere voice, exclaimed, "You're welcome!" With wild, panicked eyes, Sherlock shoved Moriarty out of the way and ran to John, falling to his knees next to his friend.

John's blood was flowing from his chest and he moaned in agony. Sherlock threw open his coat and covered the wound with both of his hands, and warm blood flowed in between his fingers, seeping from John's chest, cruelly being pumped away. "John, John, look at me," he ordered, his voice raw but strong. John's eyes opened, and he looked up at Sherlock, breathing heavily. He watched as Sherlock tore off his scarf, and stuffed it over the wound, holding it with one hand. With the other, he grabbed John's hand, and looked around desperately.

Moriarty had disappeared, and there was no help to be found. Sherlock gasped in panic, and he turned to John again, and his wide, terrified eyes found those of his friend. John grinned lamely up at him through the pain, squeezing Sherlock's blood-soaked hand. "S'alright, Sherlock. S'ok." He mumbled, closing his eyes.

"No, no, no, John!" Sherlock exclaimed in horror, "Please," he said softly, his voice breaking. He inhaled shakily and removed his hand from John's to search for a pulse. His fingers fumbled around on John's neck, leaving smears of blood, finding nothing. He grasped John's hand again, and cupped his face with the other hand, resting his forehead on John's. "I'm sorry," he choked out, tears falling to John's lifeless face below him. "I'm so sorry." A sob escaped, but he stifled it, leaning back and wiping his tears off of John's face, smudging blood there instead. He swallowed and leaned forward again. He grasped both sides of John's face, and studied it for a heartbroken moment. He then closed his eyes and lightly pressed his lips to John's forehead. Breathing heavily, he released his hands and slowly stood up, fresh tears tracking down his face. He turned and walked away.

"Wake up!" A voice yelled at him, "Jesus fucking Christ, wake up!" Sherlock jumped in shock, and looked around, gasping for air and sweating profusely. His face was flushed a little, and his hair was sticking up in all directions. John had a firm hold of his thin shoulders, and was searching his face, worried. "Are you alright?" Sherlock managed to focus on John for a second, and then he immediately jumped out of the chair, pushing John roughly aside, and ran to the bathroom, slamming the door. He dove for the toilet and promptly threw up noisily.

John grimaced as he heard the noise outside the bathroom, having followed his friend after fetching a glass of water. He knocked tentatively. "Sherlock?" More retching answered him. John tried to bury his worry, but he couldn't. Sherlock was scaring him. He had only just returned, and everything was definitely not the same. He turned the knob and peered inside, wincing sympathetically at his friend, who was sitting on the ground against the bathtub, his face red, his eyes watery and his long legs stretched in front of him. His hair was sticking straight up, having been pushed repeatedly from his forehead.

John walked over to Sherlock and handed him the water, asking, "What's wrong?" Sherlock accepted the water and gulped it down to John's disapproving glare.

"Drank too much," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly, peering at John over the rim of the glass.

Crossing his arms, John narrowed his eyes and nodded. "Alright, fine. Feeling better, then?"

Sherlock grinned weirdly, and with wide eyes exclaimed, "Fantastic!"

Taking the empty glass from Sherlock, John pursed his lips and glanced at his watch. "Good, that's good. It is five thirty," he said, sighing deeply and rubbing his head, exhausted. "Why don't I just make us some tea, then?"

Exhaling heavily, Sherlock leaned his head back. "Yes, please." As John turned to leave, Sherlock lifted his head and with his brow creased in worry, watched John go.

* * *

**Alright, so I do apologize for the dream bit. I don't think Moriarty survives in the show, so as much as I want him to be alive because his character is so fabulous and portrayed so well, I just couldn't do it. Dreams, if done correctly, can give valuable glimpses into what characters actually, deeply fear and what they wish for. I recently read some Freud, and his method of dream-interpretation strikes me as valid, and it makes a lot of sense. So the dreams are supposed to mean something. I'm not just teasing about Moriarty. But maybe a little. Also, I really hope someone got the reference in the title of the last chapter, and how it reflects on the reunion of John and Sherlock. **

**As always, I welcome any and all feedback! I am guilty of not reviewing a lot of stories myself, but I'm trying to change. I know it's all too easy not to, but comments really are great. They are nice because when people who don't know me read and review, I am getting an impartial assessment of my work. I make a lot of references in my stories, and I like to draw parallels between characters and overall, try to make it more of a literary experience. Reviews help me know if something is working, or if it's not, and then I can fix it. **

** I would love to improve my writing, and I don't get hurt by criticism. I welcome it wholeheartedly! **

**I hope you all enjoyed the chapter. x Cheers.**


	14. The Empty House

It was a few hours until noon, and John sat quietly sipping his tea in the living room, which was drenched with the light of the late morning. He was exhausted, but had not been able to sleep again after the events of the previous night. He had made Sherlock tea as he said, but he had returned to discover his friend leaning against the bathroom wall, looking frightfully pale. John had walked Sherlock to the sofa and deposited him there, where he had thankfully remained for a few quiet hours. He had been in the bathroom for the last hour now, and John wondered if he was feeling ill again. Just as he decided to go check on Sherlock, a gnarled, filthy figure entered the room. Momentarily taken aback, he soon realized it was just Sherlock in the disguise of the old man. John eyes followed him suspiciously as he walked awkwardly to the stairs, not bothering to acknowledge John's presence. Without uttering a single word or giving any indication of where he was going, he descended the stairs and slammed the front door as he left the building. Suppressing a sigh, John returned his attention to the morning papers, a little disgruntled.

Not five minutes later, the deafening sound of shattering glass filled the room, and John jumped from his seat, tea splashing all over the front of his pants. His mouth hung open in shock as he regarded the broken window. A second later, the other window was shattered, and John began to duck, perceiving that an object had crashed through it. He paused as he noticed a brick roll slowly to a halt at his feet. A piece of paper was tied neatly around it. Puzzled, John unfolded the paper and discarded the brick on the floor. Scrawled, in Sherlock's handwriting, was the following: "I'll have someone stop by to repair the windows within the next few hours. If Mrs Hudson or anyone else should inquire, you observed a group of young hooligans running away. It was a hired job. Good morning! –SH"

John regarded the note dumbly for a moment, but then, realizing suddenly the extreme discomfort the hot tea was causing on a sensitive area, tucked the note into a pocket and went in search of a change of clothes, grumbling about unnecessarily mysterious and reckless consulting detectives.

Many hours later, late in the afternoon, Sherlock ran up the steps and burst through the door, startling John, who had been quietly reading a book. Sherlock was dressed as himself, donning his coat, scarf, button-up and all. Striding to the windows, he satisfied himself to the replacements, and drew the shades after looking up and down the street furtively. Regarding him with an expression that could only be annoyance, John lowered his book.

"Why did you have the windows broken?" He demanded, crossing his arms.

Sherlock, who had seated himself at the table, did not turn around to face John, but answered as he stared into the air, steepling his fingers under his chin. "Oh, it was quite necessary."

Narrowing his eyes at this, John seemed to realize for the first time the implications of Sherlock's abandonment of the old man costume. "Moran's people will have seen you," John observed, attempting to bury his horror at the thought.

A slow, self-satisfied grin spread itself over Sherlock's face, and he closed his eyes. "Yes, you are undoubtedly correct," he murmured.

Immediately recognizing the signs of Sherlock retreating deeply into thought, John knew he would likely hear nothing from Sherlock for the foreseeable future. Thankful that he had at least not been killed on the way back, John picked up his book again, only to toss it down a few minutes later. Sherlock had not moved a muscle. Frustrated, John found himself in the kitchen in search of scotch. He had worried about Sherlock all afternoon, and he wondered how he could so easily fall back into his old mannerisms, acting as if the last three years were nothing more than a weekend away on a case.

Leaning against the counter and downing his drink, John thought back to the days following Sherlock's death, and was taken aback at how readily the anxiety, guilt, and bereavement showed that they would not so easily be forgotten. With shaking hands, he poured another glass. He was so lost in thought that he did not notice Sherlock entering the room, and he jumped at the hand whose slender fingers wrapped around his glass, removing it from his grip.

When he glanced at Sherlock's face, he was surprised to find that a soft expression had replaced the arrogant one that had been there before, and John immediately looked down, overwhelmed and fighting to regain his composure. Seeing Sherlock look sincerely apologetic was, in a way, terrifying. John had seen this before, but it had always been an act. Now that it wasn't he felt horribly awkward.

He heard the glass being set on the counter and Sherlock step away. In a soft voice, he said, "Work is the best antidote to sorrow, John." Surprised, John raised his head, but Sherlock was gone, and the glass was empty.

Two hours and a single text to Mycroft and Lestrade later, John and Sherlock stepped out of 221B and onto the sidewalk. John had no idea what the text said, as Sherlock had nonchalantly slid his phone into his jacket pocket. It was a balmy evening, and the heavy, rolling clouds completely shrouded any light that may have been attempting to reach the earth. Sherlock had announced that they were going out and to bring his gun. John almost felt guilty about how glad he was to leave the flat, with the promise of some kind of resolution to the problem of Sebastian Moran. He was forced to grudgingly admit that Sherlock had been correct, because as he felt the familiar thrill of adventure creep up on him, he felt his apprehension and anger, or, as Sherlock as said, his sorrow, fade quickly away. Sherlock hailed a cab, and they ducked inside.

Sherlock's mood had darkened considerably, and he remained silent for the duration of the ride. He was deep in thought, and looked nowhere but out the window. The lights of the city danced across his face, illuminating his stern expression and hardened gaze, and John watched curiously as his lips would twitch upwards every once in a while, but the expression would immediately disappear. He silently wondered what was to become of the unfortunate Colonel Moran before the end of the night.

The driver stopped at a street John was not familiar with, and Sherlock locked arms with his former flatmate, as they got out of the cab. Sherlock whispered to him, "I am going to move very quickly for the next few minutes, and you need to stay with me." John nodded, and Sherlock released his arm. John noticed his friend throwing searching glances in every direction as they walked.

Sherlock had not been exaggerating. His knowledge of London's alleys and abandoned buildings had not ceased to amaze John, and he led them on a dizzying path for quite some time. After almost a half hour of ducking through dark alleys and climbing tall chain link fences, they finally arrived at a street with which John was familiar. He furrowed his brow, because they were very close to Baker Street. He did not question Sherlock, however, as he led them to a dirty, neglected yard with a collapsing wood gate, and to the door of an equally dirty, collapsing, empty house.

He picked the lock to the back door easily, and he gave John a grim smile as he pushed the door open. It was dusty and dark, and the wood floor creaked under their feet. Sherlock grabbed John's wrist, and led him down a hallway and up a flight of rickety stairs. John could make out nothing, as the place was pitch-dark. They approached a single, filthy window, and Sherlock peered out, as did John. The light coming through the window cast an eerie blue tint to the darkness of the room.

Sherlock's mood had lightened somewhat, as he was satisfied that they had not been followed. He leaned over to John and whispered, "Do you know where we are?"

Gazing out the window, John nodded, recognizing the flat as the realization of what they had just done dawned upon him. He spied a tall, thin figure in the window, and his mouth dropped open. He grabbed Sherlock's sleeve.

"Oh, that will be Mycroft," Sherlock whispered, his eyes gleaming at John. He moved away from the window slightly so as to avoid being seen, and indicated for John to do the same. "Did you notice I had the curtains changed as well? Hopefully they will distort Mycroft just enough for Moran to be convinced that he is me. He entered the flat after we left wearing my coat and scarf." John glanced at Sherlock, who was wearing his coat and scarf. "Well, don't be absurd, John. We aren't exactly the same size. He had a wig, too." John sniggered at the image, but inwardly decided that Mycroft was brave indeed to be willing to bear all of the insufferable remarks that were sure to come from his younger brother. He shook his head as Sherlock watched the pedestrians milling around on the street, like a hawk searching for prey. John wondered how he had not noticed how much weight Mycroft had lost in the last few years, since it was enough for him to plausibly pass as Sherlock. Initially, he had attributed it to guilt and grief. But, John supposed, he may not have been entirely wrong.

As the two stood at opposite sides of the window, silently watching people go about their daily business, John thought he saw the same person cross back and forth more than once. A few uneventful minutes passed.

"You're going to let one of the world's most dangerous killers believe your older brother is you." John mused, shrugging. "Seems like a great idea."

Sherlock replied, arching an eyebrow and without removing his eyes from the street, "I only have great ideas."

John chuckled to himself, and whispered back, "Remember when you tried to seduce someone into giving you information? Remember how that ended?" Sherlock grunted, pursing his lips. "Oh, well, in case you don't—"

"I do!" he interrupted, and he could perceive John's shoulders shaking with silent laughter from his peripheral vision.

"You screamed," John continued unfazed in a low voice, giggling quietly. "You screamed so loud, and sounded so scared, that I thought you were dying or something awful had happened." John leaned against the wall, chuckling to himself. Sherlock made an unidentifiable noise of discontent, but John spied a smirk on his face.

John's smile disappeared as he spied the figure that he had seen twice now stop across the street from their old flat, and look curiously up at the curtained window. Shaking his head in reply, Sherlock indicated that he too had observed the figure, and it wasn't what he was looking for. He tapped his fingers impatiently, and John caught him absentmindedly caressing his broken wrist, and made a mental note to drag him in for an x-ray in the near future.

Minutes crawled by, and John watched with increasing apprehension Sherlock's impatient brooding. It was growing late, and the pedestrian crowd had thinned as people returned home. It had also started to rain. Unexpectedly, for nothing had changed outside, Sherlock's eyes lit up and his face broke into an expression of surprised delight. John drew his brows, uncertain of what had just happened. Sherlock suddenly flew to John and put a finger to his lips, backing him quickly into the darkest corner of the room. He whispered excitedly in his ear, "Someone is here!"

Gingerly, he released John and flattened himself against the wall, relying on the complete darkness for concealment. Though John had heard nothing before, he could now perceive soft footsteps making their way up the stairs, as it was quite impossible to walk silently upon those old, creaky boards. The footsteps drew closer, and John pulled his gun from his jacket, wincing at the sound of the safety as he clicked it off.

Sherlock placed a restraining hand on John's chest, shaking his head. Catching John's eye, Sherlock held up a finger, indicating for him to wait, and mouthed the same. Holding his hand out, he motioned for John to give him the gun. John hesitated, but obeyed. It was an odd suggestion from Sherlock. The sound of the footsteps entered the room, drawing the attention of both men. A dark figure appeared in the doorway and then stepped into the room, carrying a large bag. When he stepped into the dim light let in through the dusty window, they saw who they both knew was Sebastian Moran. The man was enormous, tall and thick, with a bald head and a bristly goatee. He kneeled in front of the window, and began to unpack his bag and efficiently assemble a rifle.

Feeling slightly unsettled watching Moran assemble a weapon that had been used on himself once and was now meant to kill his friend, John's eyes wandered to Sherlock's face for an instant. He was reassured by the bright spark in Sherlock's eyes, for this mood John knew well. It meant that Sherlock Holmes had acquired the last necessary shred of evidence or observed the defining event to enable him to close a case. His thinness and pallor suddenly did not seem so alarming, for Sherlock's health could oftentimes depend entirely on the state of his cases. He felt John's gaze, but did not take his eyes from Moran, who was opening the window. He grabbed John's wrist to restrain him further. He still wanted to wait. John glanced worriedly at his gun, as Sherlock held it limply at his side with his right hand, which bore the splint.

This made John nervous, because he was now extremely concerned for Mycroft's life. Sherlock didn't move an inch, and Moran was taking aim. Sherlock's grip on John's wrist tightened considerably: a warning. Don't move. John's breath hitched as he watched Moran make final adjustments. Disregarding Sherlock's warning, John leapt at Moran as he fired a shot. Moran cried out in shock as he and John fell to the ground in a heap.

"Damn it!" Sherlock yelled, and dove after John, who was wrestling with Moran. Sherlock heard an exchange of blows, and raised the gun. "Step away from him!" He ordered, stepping into the light of the open window and aiming it at the tussling bodies. He couldn't make out who was who in the pile because it was so dark. He heard the sound of someone being thrown on the ground—hard. After that, he could only hear a single person breathing heavily.

"John?" He called, but John did not answer him. "Moran! I am armed. Step away from him _immediately_." Sherlock's voice was sombre and authoritative, and bore a hardened edge, but there was an awkward stiffness in his movements. It was fear. Moran did nothing, and Sherlock leapt toward him, grabbing his collar and pressing the gun into his body. Moran acted quickly, and was much stronger than Sherlock. He knocked the gun out of Sherlock's hand, causing him to groan from the impact on his broken wrist. At the same time the gun had been knocked to the ground, Moran swung his thick arm and smashed Sherlock in the face, causing him to stagger back into the wall.

At that moment, John leapt at Moran, and they disappeared into the shadows, struggling. Sherlock was dazed, and it took him a moment to focus. He sprang into action, however, when he heard John cry out in pain and fall to his knees. He dove after Moran's bulky form, and tried to force him back into the wall. Their arms were locked, and soon, it was evident that Sherlock was not strong enough to hold him. Moran threw Sherlock against the wall, causing his head to crash against the surface, and he tried to get his hands around Sherlock's throat. Sherlock kicked at him and punched him with his bad hand, but it was enough to distract Moran, and he dove for the gun, which was in the line of the meagre amount of light coming through the open window. By the time he had aimed, Moran was retreating out of the room, but he fired without hesitation, scrambling to his feet. He thought he hit Moran, but he had continued running, and was already down the stairs.

Sherlock stumbled, dizzy, and whirled around to find John, who had been silent throughout the last part of the scuffle. He yelled John's name, diving to his knees next to his friend. John was lying face down, perfectly still, his body crumpled and limp. A small pool of blood was forming underneath him. Sherlock could no longer perceive anything except for John. He repeated John's name loudly and urgently, and grabbed his shoulders, turning him so he was lying on his back. There was a knife protruding from his torso. His eyes widened in horror, and all of his breath suddenly left him.

Though Sherlock did not hear the noise, someone ran up the stairs, taking two at a time. It was Lestrade, and he had a flashlight. "My men got him out—oh my god." He stopped upon seeing Sherlock kneeling over an injured John. He was immediately on his radio, calling for an ambulance, and he knelt next to John as well, trying to assess the scene. Sherlock's shaking hands were searching for a pulse, and he seemed frantic.

"He's alive," Sherlock gasped out, and he leaned back a little, regarding Lestrade for the first time. The detective inspector radioed in the new information, and put a restraining hand on Sherlock's shoulders. Ignoring Lestrade, Sherlock leapt up, and began an agitated pacing, running his hands though his hair.

"What the hell happened?" Lestrade demanded, continuing to monitor John and trying to get him to wake up. Seeming unsure, Sherlock paused.

"John—John went after him. Moran wasn't supposed to be here!" He raised his voice, angry. "But I thought the plan would still work."

At that moment, the blessed sound of sirens came from outside and the flashing of blue and red lights filled the room. Kneeling next to his friend, Sherlock saw him start to stir, and his heart leapt. Sherlock grabbed his hand, and squeezed it as John moaned in pain. "Don't talk," Sherlock ordered, searching John's face and struggling to remain composed. John lifted his head and, upon observing the knife wedged under his lower ribs, let his head fall heavily back to the floor in shock. "Don't move, either." Sherlock amended. John groaned in response as the paramedics burst into the room with a stretcher and dragged Sherlock away from John. Scrambling to his feet and leaning back against the wall, Sherlock exhaled forcefully and numbly watched the flurry of activity around John.


	15. The Gallantry of the Heartless, Part I

The rain came down steadily in the black night as Sherlock leaned his forehead against the cool glass, exhaling and creating a fog on the surface in front of him, blurring the halos of the street lights outside, which had already been refracted from the drops of water making their leisurely way down the pane. The lights were dimmed in the waiting room for the night, and all of the visitors had either gone home or were in their families' rooms. Sherlock closed his eyes, as if feigning off pain.

He had not been in to see John. He couldn't bring himself to just yet. He felt like his rib cage was being slowly smashed in with a persistent, heavy weight. He couldn't breathe properly and his limbs were numb. John was fine, though, as Lestrade had told him some minutes earlier. He had nodded and waved him off, since his voice had left him. He was in a strange place, somewhere between rage and despair. So his body was to be merely numb. With cold eyes and a set jaw, he regarded his reflection in the window. The blurry white and blue lights of the city illuminated half of his face, creating an eerie chiaroscuro. He let out a quiet, sarcastic laugh at himself, sniffing. He was solely to blame for John's injury, which could have easily been much worse. Turning from the window, he pulled his scarf from his coat pocket and wrapped it around his neck, making his way determinedly toward the red exit sign. He could not see John just yet.

Lestrade pushed himself up from the uncomfortable chair next to John's bed, and tapped his hand lightly on the mattress, anxiously. John's pallor nearly matched the value of the white sheets on his bed, but he seemed to have a tinge of grey to his colouration. Bags stood out under his eyes and his blanket had been pulled down to his waist, revealing his torso, covered only by the hospital gown that he was wearing. His arms had not been put through the sleeves, so that the nurses would have easy access to the injury. The various dressings and bandages made a small lump underneath the light, patterned fabric of the gown. John had been drifting in and out of consciousness since his arrival, though he had ceased moaning and crying out from the burning pain of the stab wound, as he now had an intravenous supply of medication. Lestrade had sensed that John was finally settling in for the night, now that the crisis was over and he was stable.

"Sherlock?" John mumbled, as he opened his eyes and shifted uncomfortably and stiffly in his bed to peer at Lestrade, battling the medicine for consciousness. Shrugging, Lestrade shook his head once in response.

"He, uh," Lestrade paused and cleared his throat, looking at the place where the IV line was inserted in John's arm rather than at his face. His focus wavering, John blinked groggily, his brows raised in anticipation.

"He can't be here right now," Lestrade offered, hoping desperately that John wouldn't fight for an explanation. John merely nodded, his heavy lids closing over his tired eyes.

"Mm'k," John murmured in the slow, soft drawl of the exhausted. "I'll see 'im tomorrow prolly." He sighed and buried half of his face in the fluffy yet stiff pillows of the hospital, and promptly began to snore softly. Lestrade exhaled heavily, and turned to leave, softly cursing at Sherlock.

John did not see Sherlock the next day or the day after. It seemed as if he had disappeared. His silence was disquieting to John, and, if he was honest, he also felt a little resentful that Sherlock appeared to be walking in and out of his life as he pleased. John once again experienced the strange sensation of feeling like he was not in control of his life at all. A legally, if not a literal, dead man controlled his life. Sherlock, John knew, was a kind of chaos operator: changing everything into a more chaotic version of itself. Consequently, he felt as if he were experiencing the peaks and troughs of a high frequency wave, consisting of severe ups and downs: the chaos and upheaval associated with Sherlock's presence and the awful, hollow quiet of his absence.

The day he was released from the hospital, he sat alone in his flat, realizing for the first time that Sherlock was not going to see him. He felt the quietness pressing its insistent spectral fingers around him.

Walking slowly across the room, John kneeled at his overnight bag and rummaged around, eventually pulling out Sherlock's journal, a notebook and a pen. He returned to the sofa and thumbed through the pages, searching for a specific entry.

"Are you sure I can't just remain dead?" Sherlock inquired insolently and he upturned a box, throwing its contents to the ground with a crash. He kicked around at the pile.

"Quite sure," Mycroft murmured, rolling his eyes. He sat on Sherlock's bed and regarded his younger brother with an air of mild impatience.

Sherlock grunted, and then flopped dramatically down on the bed, snarling in vexation and throwing his hands into the air. "Oh hell! I can't find anything." He turned on his side and propped his chin in his hands, his eyes gleaming at Mycroft. "Coming back from the dead is so tiresome. I hate paperwork." He sighed loudly, and then added, "I don't see why I have to do all of that now."

"So that you don't get thrown in prison," Mycroft replied matter-of-factly, raising a curious eyebrow at his petulant sibling.

Sherlock smirked at this. "Mummy would be appalled."

"With you? I think you've already managed that in every conceivable way. Besides, we both know it's nothing less than you deserve."

"Ha! And you as well," Sherlock shot back as he leapt off the bed and began to tear open another box. Mycroft sighed at his brother.

"I've made most of the paperwork disappear, and if you follow our instructions, the police will not bother you. I think this should be as quiet of a process as possible. The government is prepared to corroborate the story that you have been working undercover for us for the last three years."

"God," Sherlock murmured, picking up and opening a book that had fallen on the floor. A shadow passed over his face. "It seemed like so much longer." He turned to look at his brother, who was staring at him with a perplexed expression. He cast his eyes away. "I thought I would never come back. I thought I would die out there, with no name, no home, and no hope. Completely alone. I thought I would just be a dead man with a ruined reputation." He tossed the book aside, and leaned to pick up another. He studied the back cover. "It would have been more convenient if I had, I think. It would have been easier than this." When he turned to his brother again, Mycroft was impassive. Sherlock kicked at the growing pile of objects on his floor, and triumphantly lifted a pack of cigarettes. He immediately lit one.

"I have a pack, as you have undoubtedly noticed."

"Yes, I did. It's been fifteen years, hasn't it? That's quite the failure." Sherlock nearly dove to another box, and began recklessly emptying its contents. "You know," he said, exhaling smoke and throwing various objects around the room. "You know that John would have regarded me more favourably than he does now."

"You saved his life," Mycroft replied, sliding on gloves and looking uncomfortable.

"I had little choice."

"Is that why you are avoiding him?" Mycroft stood up and began buttoning his jacket. The tornado of papers and objects ceased for a moment, and the room became still.

"No," Sherlock said, without turning to face Mycroft, who had paused in the doorway with his head cocked in thought, taking in the destruction of the bedroom before him. Sherlock's chaos was familiar to him, but now, upon seeing his younger brother standing alone, his shoulders as bony as they had ever been, his trousers hanging off of his narrow hips and his black hair a wavy mess, smoking a cigarette with shaking hands, Mycroft was overcome with concern, though showed no outward signs of it. A metal clip on Sherlock's splint caught the light, drawing Mycroft's attention.

"I must admit I'm surprised at you." Mycroft observed. Sherlock looked at his brother over his shoulder, taking a prolonged drag. His blue eyes were emotionless, and his stare was cold.

"Don't," Sherlock said after a while, and turned back to his rummaging, dismissing Mycroft.

"Gallantry doesn't suit you," Mycroft said, ignoring Sherlock's warning. Pausing in his movements, the younger did not reply immediately, and idly tossed books into loosely sorted piles.

"I'm sure I do not know what you are talking about."

"Don't you?"

"Is that all, Mycroft?" Sherlock's voice had taken on an icy edge.

"Well, I hope you at least have a plan for keeping yourself out of rehab," Mycroft said coldly. Sherlock whirled around angrily, his brows drawn and lips thinned by his ire.

"What the hell am I supposed to do?" he yelled, throwing a book down violently in frustration. He approached Mycroft, who stiffened, but did not move away. "I suppose I should just let everything go back to the way it was—John perpetually in danger! My greatest weakness—he's practically a gift to my enemies." Mycroft's only reaction to the outburst was to raise his eyebrows. Sherlock continued, "My god! Don't you see? Can't you see it? If John hadn't been involved with me, Moriarty wouldn't have been able to get to me so easily. But he beat me twice because of John. He knew exactly how to play me. And John, well, he'll die keeping me company." Sherlock spat out, and turned away, his hands on his hips. Calmly looking his panting, enraged brother up and down, Mycroft silently nodded.

"I see. And you don't suppose John should be the one to make that decision?" Sherlock shook his head.

"He would make the wrong one," he said, his voice softer and low, resigned. Mycroft gazed at his bowed head and slumped shoulders.

"I'm sorry," Mycroft said, in a rare moment of openness, his usually hard demeanour softening. "I didn't know." They were words that Sherlock could only numbly nod to, words that his brother had uttered to him before now, upon realizing how convincing Sherlock was in feigning indifference to everything and everyone. A great majority of the time, he was indifferent. The few instances when he was not entirely cold, when he actually did care about someone, it caused him so much inner turmoil that he often never breathed a word. It was easier for him this way. Mycroft could certainly relate, as he regarded a weakened and weary Sherlock Holmes sit heavily on his bed, engulfed by the haunting remnants of a destroyed life, taking a long drag on a cigarette and exhaling the smoke into the tense air.

The entry John was reading was considerably longer than most of the entries in the journal. It was one that intrigued him to no end, but it also horrified him. He felt like the tone of everything changed after this entry, like somehow Sherlock had changed. His tone had become colder, less content with the chase somehow. It was as if he had been ceaselessly haunted by the events for the rest of the time he had been gone. It occurred shortly after the year and a half mark of Sherlock's death.

"We've been receiving rumours about a high-ranking agent in the United States. He has been causing a significant amount of trouble for the government, organizing everything from drug and gun smuggling to terror cells. He is ruthless—there is a steady tail of bodies that lead to him, but we don't even know his name. There are just whispers of his existence, though they are admittedly compelling whispers. Some refer to him as "La Noche Eterna," or the Eternal Night. Others, in a similar tone, allude to him being almost supernaturally omniscient, unobservable, and deadly. The reason no one can describe him is because those who meet him often end up dead. I confess to being intrigued. The FBI has volunteered their assistance. I am to become one of his agents, and my training begins today. In a week, I'll be flown into California with a new name. I have to abandon this journal until the work is complete. It's an unnecessary risk."

Three Months Later: "I was released from the Navy hospital two days ago. I am to fly back tomorrow. I thought that I had certainly died, and I probably should have. Although I succeeded in my assignment, I failed in many ways. I got my partner and an innocent girl killed."

Sherlock had paused in his writing here, reliving the harrowing experience. He wiped the sweat that had gathered at his brow, rubbing the bloodied bandage that was wrapped precariously around his head. He was wearing a t-shirt, and another bloody bandage was visible around his thin left bicep. His hands were shaking uncontrollably, and he dropped his pen. A sob escaped from his pale lips, and he pushed himself up from the hotel desk were he had been seated. He covered his mouth with the back of his hand, and unshed tears swam in his bright eyes as he paced the room. Breathing heavily, he angrily picked up the glass of water that was resting on the nightstand and threw it across the room as hard as he could. The glass and its contents exploded on the wall, and he forced his eyes closed, and slowly, numbly lowered himself onto the bed, and buried his head in his hands.

_My name was Rob Blankenship, an old friend of another member of the drug ring named Mike Brezonik. He was an undercover FBI agent who had been working there for the last two years. He was a short, small man, but his frame was sturdy and muscular, though not overly so. I suspected he had been in a few fights lately, and had come out the victor. There was something inherently dangerous about his calm demeanour and intelligent eyes._

_I had only a single overnight bag, and was to stay with Mike in his cheaply furnished apartment in a tremendously bad neighbourhood. The first night, he made me a sandwich, though I was not hungry. His television was blaring the evening news, and he placed the turkey and lettuce sandwich on the coffee table in front of me. _

"_Uh, thanks," I said, in an American accent, in character. He gave me a puzzled look as he seated himself across from me, his features partially concealed in the poor lighting. He was wearing a tank top and black jeans, and I was wearing trousers and a casual button down. My hair was blonde, and I had thick glasses on. He was of a darker complexion, and had jet black hair. We presented an interesting contrast: he, the authoritative, imposing member of a drug ring, and I, the young college dropout who had a penchant for whipping up dangerous drugs and poisons in my garage. Or so they would think. _

"_So, Rob," he began, biting into his own sandwich, "You're the chemist?" My mouth twitched as I reached for the plate on the coffee table. _

"_It's merely a part I have played before." _

"_But you know what you're doing?" _

"_Of course." I knew that his wife had recently left him because of his uncover work, at least. _

_He considered this for a moment. "They will test you. The first month or more is a test. You have to watch yourself. They're very suspicious, very careful. You have to impress them, to be someone they can't do business without." _

"_I do not anticipate that will be a problem." Mike's eyes narrowed. I could synthesize an untraceable poison in my sleep. _

"_If you fail, I fail. It's a huge risk. My contact told me to trust you. I'm trusting you. I've already told them about you. They're eager."_

"_What did you say exactly?" I tentatively bit into the sandwich._

"_I told them you're an old friend from college, who dropped out to join the business. I told them you were a genius, unbeatable and invaluable, and that you were willing to talk. That you could give them what they need." _

"_Quite so. And I meet the head of the operation tomorrow?" _

_"Yes, but I suspect there is someone working with Carlos, or above him. It seems as if someone in charge just appeared from the UK. No one gets to them. Do you get that? This is huge. It's the opportunity I've been waiting for." He gestures became excited. "This is it for them. I feel it. They've been planning this and now we can shut them down for good. How much have you been told?"_

"_Only what the British government could provide on such short notice. It seems extremely ambitious. Do you think they could succeed? That they could take over the drug market in Britain, establish themselves as a force there?" _

"_Absolutely. If we don't stop them, they will be _the _criminal force in Britain. They've all but taken over the drug and gun market of southern California, Arizona and Nevada, responsible for countless armed robberies and murders. They like to threaten competing criminal rings or disloyal clients by kidnapping and murdering family members. The most hardened criminals are terrified of crossing them, as they should be." _

"_Why the sudden interest in the UK?" _

"_I don't think the interest came from them. Someone has been watching them, learning from them, and is now recruiting them. The head of the operation, Carlos, was contacted about six months ago, and I hear the man from Britain came to town about a month ago, though I have never seen him. I've been told that they are beside themselves to meet you."_

"_How very flattering." _

A sharp pain in John's chest caused him to stop reading. He looked at his watch and realized he had forgotten his pain meds. As he took them, he wondered about the feeling of dread that had crept silently over him as he read. He wondered if the troubling feeling was somehow connected to Sherlock's silence.


	16. Out of the Kettle

_And there I was, prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn and be burned. Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. I felt that I could withstand anything. I could push my body, my mental capacities to the limit. I could be something other than human if it meant defeating Jim Moriarty, the most dangerous criminal mastermind the world has ever known, and my greatest adversary. I could be ruthless, cunning, and cruel. I was already all of those things. I did what no sane person would have done. No good person. When it happened, I could almost feel that horrible vacancy where a beating heart should have been. _

_ I have trained myself to be distant. I have divorced my mind from emotion, from sentiment. It could only be a hindrance. Facts, action, results, data, observation, and deduction. I am a cold computing machine, magnificently logical but a poor representation of what people think humanity should be. It has never mattered to me; "good" does not matter to me. But every once in a while, occasionally every several years, I think for a fleeting instant that I might hate myself. _

_ Ever since I had met John, it seemed to be happening more and more frequently. The last time had been a year and a half before, when I had thrown my phone onto the roof of St. Bart's, after cruelly deceiving John. I had hated myself as I raised my arms, tears blurring my vision and fear gripping my chest as I regarded the pavement several stories below, and then closed my eyes and leaned forward. _

_ And once more, I was the most vile creature in existence. Worse than Carlos. Worse than Angela. I wished that I would have taken no precautions at St. Bart's, for a single, terrible, moment. I had to remind myself that it was just part of the game, part of the plan to burn me. I could defeat Moriarty, but only at a steep price. I would suffer for it, and I had always known that. I was determined to do it, even if I had to die. Even if I lost my mind. Even if I would be reduced to nothing. And so I did, and so I was. _

_ After weeks of ingratiating myself to Carlos, the head of the operation, they finally trusted me enough to allow me start work on synthesizing various poisons, including various recreational drugs. I also earned some bonus points for showing them how to make guns disappear. Well, dissolve, and that was only after I had made a record of the serial numbers for use in future trials (of the weapons that had serial numbers, that is). Mike had already warned me several times that I would inevitably be obligated to participate in some heady criminal activities. And so, after I had been performing this relatively low-key chemistry for Carlos for two months, I knew that the time had come for me to become more intimately involved. _

_ I had known within five minutes of meeting Carlos that he was not the head of the criminal ring. The mysterious Englishman was undoubtedly involved, though he had failed to materialize in the two months that I had been working. It was time for me to demand a promotion. My work was unmatched, and I had made sure that I came off as ambitious and confident. The chemistry was infallible. _

_ When Carlos asked me to make him tetrodotoxin, I knew the opportunity had arisen. It is a chemical with an involved synthesis that takes a great deal of time, skill and equipment to make safely. He had been hovering over me in the abandoned warehouse that had become my laboratory. The personal visit indicated that he had an unusual request, as he normally sent his order along with a less important person. I completed the extraction that I had been performing before acknowledging either his presence or his question. When I had drained the aqueous layer and dried the organic with magnesium sulphate, I set down my beaker and began to dismantle the separatory funnel. _

_ "Can you synthesize tetrodotoxin?" He repeated, regarding me with dark eyes, and shivering slightly, as I kept the lab cold and he was wearing a sleeveless muscle shirt over dirty, destroyed jeans. _

_ "Of course I can," I replied confidently, walking to the sink and rinsing the empty funnel with water, then acetone, and then water again. "It's a fairly involved process, however." _

_ "What do you want?" He asked, running a tanned hand through thick, dark hair. _

_ I was silent for a moment, considering, and pretending to rummage through the pockets of my labcoat. The use of this particular poison seemed immediately to me to be outside the intellectual abilities of Carlos himself. I smiled inwardly. Tetrodotoxin is a poison found in pufferfish and some species of octopus. Evolution had cunningly equipped these sea creatures with a paralytic and deadly bite. A half of a milligram is a lethal dose for an adult human. _

_ "I want what every employee wants. An opportunity for advancement." _

_ "What does that mean? You want more money?" He seemed amused._

_ I shook my head. "I want to meet your boss." _

_ His face hardened at this. "I am the boss." I smiled knowingly, and pushed my glasses up my nose. _

_ "I'm not one of your agents, Carlos. It's my job to be observant. I want to do bigger jobs." He was silent for a moment._

_ "Make me this, and I'll see what I can do," he hedged._

_ "No," I replied quickly. "I need confirmation," I demanded. "I'm going to do more than dissolve your murder weapons in nitric acid every afternoon." Carlos narrowed his eyes at me, but I continued, outwardly confident but inwardly wary of his temper. "I think the TTX wasn't your idea. Why does he want it?" _

_ "I'm surprised," he said, "That since you're so clever, you haven't figured out what your job is exactly. You don't get to ask questions like that." _

_ I rolled my eyes and held up my hands in mock-surrender. "Sheesh, ok, fine. It's just . . . it's a weird choice, you know?" _

_ "Get me the poison and I'll get you what you want." He said sombrely, and exited the lab. _

Dark grey clouds hung low in the afternoon sky, softly enveloping London. Rain fell in the large, languid drops of the early spring. It was a particularly gloomy day outdoors, but despite that, Sherlock was seated on a wood bench in Regent's Park. With his coat collar turned up and his hands shoved in his pockets, he sat contemplatively, staring daggers into the grass ahead of him.

His reverie was broken by the approach of a disgruntled detective inspector Lestrade. Sherlock looked him up and down sharply, and then demanded, "What's happened?"

Lestrade, who had been walking quickly, stopped in front of him, slightly out of breath and pale. "Sebastian Moran," he said. Sherlock quickly realized exactly what had happened to Sebastian Moran.

"How was it done?"

"How—"

"Never mind that. How was he killed?" Sherlock asked impatiently. Sighing loudly, Lestrade ran a hand through his hair and sat down next to Sherlock. The rain continued to fall.

"His was gunned down while being transported back to his cell from the hearing." Sherlock did not seem particularly surprised.

"I've been expecting this." Lestrade blanched.

"How?"

"Because of the woman John met three days ago." Lestrade narrowed his eyes at Sherlock.

"You've spoken to him?" Sherlock stared ahead resolutely.

"Not exactly."

"Oh, right," Lestrade cleared his throat. "It's kind of sweet, you know," he said. Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "In a creepy sort of way." Sherlock huffed at this.

"I felt obligated to check up on him. You lot can barely manage to keep yourselves alive."

"Right, ok. Who was the woman?"

"I don't know her real name."

"But do you know her."

"Of course," Sherlock acknowledged. "We became acquainted in California during my work for Mycroft. She's one of the most dangerous people I've ever met." Lestrade seemed surprised at this.

"Can you help?"

"Yes. She would have had someone else kill Moran. But she's behind all of it. She waited until now to act; she waited for almost two years." Sherlock announced, lost in thought. He eventually continued, "It's a message. Everyone thought she was dead, like me. The newspapers only announced that I was alive at the beginning of the week." Lestrade sat heavily on the bench next to Sherlock, his brows furrowed in thought. Sherlock's phone chirped a text alert, and he pulled it from his pocket.

It was from Mycroft, and he deleted it without replying.

"What does she want?" Lestrade mused aloud. "If she wanted you dead—"

"Yes, undoubtedly," Sherlock interrupted impatiently. "I think, more than anything else, she wants to watch me burn."


	17. Bad Tea

**I'm so sorry it's been so long since I've posted! Things like math physics and research happened. I have most of the next part done so I will post again as soon as I can! As always, please let me know what you think. I really appreciate the feedback so far. It really encourages me to keep writing. So thank you thank you thank you for all of the kind words and constructive criticism. **

* * *

Sherlock pulled his coat tightly around his tall, lean frame, shielding his body against the wind as he stood in the place where Sebastian Moran had been murdered. He studied the position of the windows in the buildings surrounding the intersection near the courthouse. Methodically, he shifted around, and began to analyse the placement of the body on the ground, casting his eyes occasionally back to the buildings.

Anderson and a few other forensics personnel were milling around in the area, having already had their turn. The body was face down on the damp pavement, surrounded by a large pool of dark blood, which was being diluted by the light, steady rain. Lestrade was watching Sherlock intently as Anderson stalked up to them, pointing behind him.

"The shot was fired from over there. Probably the third story," he announced smugly. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and studied the body with an adroit gaze. "And why is he even here?" Anderson demanded, addressing Lestrade and giving the detective a look of disgust. Sherlock straightened in offense.

"I brought him," Lestrade interjected, "As you well know."

"I don't know why," Anderson replied snidely. "That monster nearly cost you your job," he said, and began to walk away. He turned and addressed Lestrade once again after a few steps. "As soon as he returns, the body count begins again." Lestrade glared severely at Anderson, who only shrugged. Sherlock had resumed his study of the body, going back and forth between it and the buildings.

"Wrong," he muttered under his breath.

"Sorry, what's that?" Lestrade asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Anderson's wrong," Sherlock said louder, turning towards him and giving the detective inspector a quick upward twitch of his lips. "Not entirely surprising. What is impressive, however, is how he managed to conclude that the shot was fired from almost the opposite direction from which it actually was. And it was from the fourth story, not the third."

A few minutes later, he was racing up the stairs of the old brick building he had identified, trailed by Lestrade and a few forensics personnel plus a disgruntled Anderson. Huffing by the time he had reached the top, Sherlock paused, orienting himself. He then suddenly took off down the dark hallway, not bothering to wait for the others. Running into an abandoned and empty office, he immediately spotted the large manila envelope on the ground underneath the window. He slid on a pair of gloves and approached it cautiously, his footsteps silent on the thin and grimy carpet.

He stepped in a semi-circle in front of the window, careful to not interfere with the placement of the envelope. Before moving to pick it up, he inspected the windowsill and the latches on the window. He also observed that dust, which had been lying in a relatively thick, undisturbed layer on much of the windowsill, had been stirred up in places. Perhaps where someone had levelled a rifle.

Satisfied, he knelt by the envelope as Lestrade and the others finally reached the room. Written on the heavy paper in rich black ink was "Mr. Sherlock Holmes". He did not move from his crouching positions as the others surrounded him.

"For god's sake!" Anderson blurted out upon spying the words. "It's back to the games, then, is it? Honestly, his presence causes more problems than he manages to solve."

"Anderson!" Lestrade swiftly reprimanded. Sherlock appeared to have not heard the exchange, and carefully lifted the envelope from the ground, holding it up to the light filtering through the dust-caked window. He then extracted a pocket knife from his coat and cautiously opened the envelope, removing a black and white photograph. Though he did not move a muscle, a shadow seemed to cross over his face. His back was blocking the view of the photo from the others, and just as Lestrade craned his neck around to look at it, Sherlock abruptly crumpled it and shoved it into his coat pocket, whirled around, and hastily exited the room.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade yelled, and made after the retreating form of the detective, and Anderson rolled his eyes in exasperation. Sherlock had made it outside before Lestrade caught up with him, grabbing his elbow and roughly dragging him to a stop.

Sherlock bit back an annoyed groan and sternly eyed the older man. Lestrade gave him an equally intense stare. "It's evidence, Sherlock." Stiffly, after a tense moment in which neither man succumbed to the other's stare, Sherlock reached into his pocket, not taking his fuming eyes from Lestrade. He very deliberately placed the smashed photo into Lestrade's open hand, whirled around with a dramatic flourish of his long coat, and was gone.

"Sher—oh, hell," Lestrade started to call, but gave up, sighing in exasperation at the detective's intransigence. He uneasily unfolded and straightened the tortured paper, and immediately scrunched his features in confusion. It was a shot of a young woman, probably in her late teens or very early twenties, who was excitedly holding a framed picture of lines and lines of equations in one hand and an award in the other, with a bright smile on her face. She was wearing large, black glasses, and a skirt and button-up with a vest and a tie with her hair pulled back. Lestrade had never seen her before, and wondered why the photo caused had such an intense reaction in Sherlock.

When he returned to Baker Street, Sherlock knew who would be awaiting his return.

_British, yes. But it was a woman. I wished that that would have proven to be the only surprise regarding her. It was she—the sobriquet had been hers. It was she that everyone was living in perpetual fear of, even though no one was sure if she even existed. She was a dark spectre, striking with deadly anonymity at any time she desired. The first time I met her, she had been waiting in my makeshift lab for my arrival. _

_I knew by the door that someone had let themselves in, and although the lock picking job was far from expert, the person responsible was at least competent, if a bit impatient. The door was closed and locked again, which indicated some degree of premeditation. I removed a pen light that I had modified with a UV bulb and shined it on the ground immediately in front of the door. Soon after Carlos had requested the TTX, I had begun to take certain precautions with my research. Before I left every night, I would smear a thin layer of petroleum jelly on the cement floor on the inside of the doorway, and I cleaned it up every morning. If anyone were to enter the lab and leave again, they would leave a nice, fluorescing footprint for me to find in the morning. There was nothing on the outside of the door. Whoever had broken in was still in the lab. _

_I unlocked the door, and entered, flipping on the lights as if it were a normal morning. I acted surprised to see a woman sitting on a stool in front of my lab bench. She smiled serenely at me, and uncrossed her long legs. She was flawlessly dressed, in a designer A-line skirt and a deep red silk button-up. She had jet black hair and perfect olive skin. "Good morning, Robert Blankenship." She greeted me smoothly, flashing a cunning grin. Her alto voice held only the smallest hint of a Spanish accent. _

"_Uh," I stammered, acting perplexed and running a nervous hand through my blond hair. "Hello," I smiled. She grinned back. _

"_Carlos tells me you've been asking questions." _

"_How dull for you," I replied, and began to prepare the materials needed for the day's work. She raised her eyebrows, surprised. She appeared to be considering something. _

"_Well, I am something of a scientist," I elaborated, and walked around her to the sink to fetch a clean beaker. While I was projecting an air of calmness and of nonchalance, I was careful to be hyperaware of her movements. She was not yet quite middle-aged, but old enough to have had a great deal of experience in her chosen field. There were small scars on her arms that stood out against her otherwise unblemished skin. Yes, she was experienced. And tenacious. _

"_You're a criminal." She pointed out. _

"_I prefer chemist" I replied, grinning as I worked in front of the balance. Her eyes betrayed her interest. _

"_I wanted the TTX." _

_I nodded absentmindedly. "Who's the lucky person? It is a bit outside of the MO for this organization, is it not?" _

"_Well, times change." _

"_Yes, yes they do." Though motives seem to remain constant. _

"_You want something better." _

"_Of course. I'm trying to go into business for myself, you understand, and to only do interesting chemistry."_

"_Interesting?" She asked, not having moved from her perch on the counter, entirely at ease. _

"_Yes. The TTX was the most interesting thing I've had on in almost a month. I knew it wasn't Carlos' idea." She smiled at this. _

"_You have recognized things in days that people work here months without ever picking up on." She said this with an almost indescribable air of someone playing a game. I said nothing immediately, and rummaged around for the phosphoric acid in a cabinet. _

"_I've been told I'm observant. And it was obvious, at least to me, that if I wanted to move up in this world I would have to go beyond Carlos' reach." I stood up with the bottle in hand and saw that she was turning something over in her mind. "Carlos is a good muscle-man, and he is more than willing to get his hands dirty, but he isn't the brains behind this. They needed someone more organized and intelligent to run this operation abroad. And here you are."_

_Her eyes gleamed with something akin to parental pride, and she slowly stood up, straightening her skirt. The businesswoman—as she was most definitely that—walked over to me, and studied my face very carefully. I had a feeling that she did not bother to do this with most people. She would dismiss them as unimportant. _

"_I've been waiting for someone like you for quite some time." Black painted nails tapped idly on the counter. "How fortunate for me that you have been dropped right into my lap." I stiffened, but managed an uneasy smile. "Get me the TTX, and I'll get you a better job. I know exactly the place for you, if you're as good as Carlos says. You have a week. I'll be in touch." With that, she was gone. _

_That night, Mike and I sat in the dimmed living room, papers strewn around the table top and floor. Our empty coffee mugs sat on the table between us._

"_This needs to be handled very delicately," he said, rubbing his eyes. We were heading into our sixth hour of strategy for the night. We had been planning like this every night for a week, and Mike was exhausted, having just returned from an all night smuggling operation. He was fading fast. _

"_Well, it's practically my middle name," I replied dryly. He abruptly stopped moving and fixed me with a displeased glare. An amused, low chuckle escaped my throat, and Mike's face broke into a small grin in response, although the worry that remained in his eyes was unmistakable. _

"Hello, John," Sherlock said upon entering the flat, not having to look into the room to know that he was there, but sitting in a different chair than usual. He was feeling displaced, then. Sherlock ignored the small stab of guilt and instead headed for the kitchen and started to prepare tea. He had also not needed to look at John to know that he was tense, perhaps prepared for a row. They had not spoken in a week.

"Why was Moran killed?" John asked in a tight, controlled voice that was carefully devoid of emotion. Sherlock could read the stiffness of John's limbs in the tone of his voice. He did not answer, but leaned against the counter patiently, waiting for the tea. Sherlock imagined John clenching his fists as his ire rose uncontrollably. Sure enough, within a few seconds John was standing inches from Sherlock, his enraged eyes boring into those of his friend. Sherlock had been slumped against the counter when John confronted him, and they were eye-level with each other.

"I was stabbed, Sherlock, by a professional killer in what—a _day_ since you came back from the dead, and there's nothing from you. Did you forget about that? Were you too occupied to notice?"

"Don't be stupid," Sherlock shot back, his face contorting in anger. John scoffed at this.

"Yeah, that's right isn't it, because anyone who does not immediately glean the meaning from your fucking bizarre behaviour is _stupid_. If there's a goddamn severed head in the fridge, the reason why it's there should be bloody obvious."

"Is it not?" Sherlock asked, sincerely lost by that. John's eyebrows shot up, and he stepped away, aggravated. Sherlock studied him with outward calmness, but his eyes betrayed his inner turmoil.

"I didn't used to mind it. But ever since—St. Bart's—I didn't know why. I would have _never_ known why." Sherlock furrowed his brows, completely lost. His mind was drawing a complete blank on what John was talking about, and John knew it.

"You—" John started, then stopped abruptly, swallowed and tried again. "My best friend, ok, Sherlock, you were my best friend." The look Sherlock gave John would have been deeply insulting coming from anyone else, but Sherlock was genuinely surprised by the admission. John's resentment resurfaced at the confession, the words reminding him of the pain of losing his friend. "You lied to me, with your fucking dying words. And I had to live with that."

A wall came down over Sherlock's face as the meaning of the conversation suddenly struck him. "And I as well," he said stiffly, his nose turned upwards and his eyes blank.

"Look, after I was—stabbed I know you went off and made a decision, without consulting me." John started, his voice lowered. Sherlock said nothing, but he did not leave either. He simply remained in the same position as before, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest, his face appearing bored but his keen eyes watching and deducing John. Sherlock tapped his fingers on his arms, the first sign of movement since the conversation had begun. He was thinking, and John had indeed been correct. "And just because, you know, I'm too dumb to understand it," John said, the vexation underlying his words marked, "Would you at least tell me what it was?"

Sherlock pushed himself from the counter in a sudden movement and began to pace. "You need to learn to be precise." John closed his eyes, trying desperately to bury the frustration.

"What do you mean?" He bit out, pinching the bridge of his nose as the detective moved back and forth through the small space in short, violent, bursts of motion.

"Our conversations would be much more expedient if you learned to be precise in your language. You know what my decision was. What you really want to know is why, but you're afraid to know the answer." He stopped with this and fixed John with a heated stare.

"Why, then?" John demanded.

"I no longer require your assistance." Sherlock replied matter-of-factly, and returned his attention to the tea. Looking as if he had been slapped, John nodded slowly.

"Right, ok. Afternoon." He said, turned, and left. After the door had slammed shut, Sherlock calmly took a sip of his tea and made a face of disgust and immediately spit it out.

"Damn it!"


	18. Smoke and Mirrors

**_Because I felt badly about not updating in so long . . . _**

* * *

_Even if I was synthesising a deadly poison, I had to admit that I greatly enjoyed the process, and the element of danger. The more complicated the process, the more I was determined to master it. Being a skilled experimentalist is a gift, and one that I had developed extensively. The synthesis was proceeding as planned, even a little ahead of schedule. On the third day, I left a beaker with crude product on the make-shift high vacuum line that I had assembled, and began to prepare for the end of the day's work, including washing copious amounts of glassware._

_ While I was preparing the chemical wash, Carlos strode into the lab wearing his trademark expensively torn jeans and black tank top. _

_ "Is it done?" He demanded without preamble. I set the beaker I had been cleaning gently in the sink, annoyed. _

_ "It was at least two days away yesterday. What do you think?"_

_ "I thought maybe you had quickened the pace, since I asked you to." _

_ "There are some things that cannot be rushed." _

_ "Surely there's something you can do." He said diplomatically, leaning casually against the counter and bumping an experiment, and I almost let my alarm show. He had bumped into a little side project of mine: the synthesis of 4-aminopyridine. TTX has no conclusive antidote, but this particular compound had looked promising in animal testing. Carlos took no notice of it. Idiot. _

_ "Who's it for?" I asked. _

_ "Not your business, Blankenship." I rolled my eyes and continued to wash glassware. "You don't actually care, do you? Because if you do, you're in the wrong business," he said, suddenly serious. _

_ "I don't care about that," I replied quickly, feigning indifference. "The only reason I ask is because there are any number of poisons that could be used that are both easier to make and take effect more quickly. So there must be a compelling reason for why you chose this poison in particular." Carlos relaxed a little and grinned. _

_ "You have to have an answer for everything, don't you? A logical explanation." He made air quotes for the last phrase. _

_ "Um," I said, not knowing where he was going with that line of conversation. "I suppose." _

_ "Yeah, you're a real logical _cabrón_,_ _aren't you? Well, you better forget about it. I don't want to have to teach you about the consequences of asking too many logical questions." I rinsed off the beaker and placed it on the drying rack. Wiping my hands with a towel, I turned to face him. _

_ "What, exactly, are the consequences of asking too many logical questions?" He nodded, unsurprised at my insolence. _

_ "You may find some unpalatable answers, _primo_. Sometimes it's just better not to know," he said in all-seriousness. I frowned deeply. _

_ "Ignorance is never better," I replied, disgusted at the notion, and also at the notion of him calling me his cousin. "Ignorance can get you killed in this business, can it not?" _

_ He nodded. "So can knowing something you shouldn't." _

_ "I just want to know why I'm doing something." _

_ "That's a dangerous path, Blankenship. But if it's really just gnawing at you," he said, pulling out his phone and flipping through it. "Here. This is the lucky lady." _

_ I was careful to show no emotion as I regarded the picture. It was a young woman who was probably in her early twenties, wearing glasses and a school uniform. I memorized the school insignia on the vest that was pulled over the button up and the girl's face. In the picture, she was holding up an award for what appeared to be work in mathematics. The equations I recognized immediately as different wave functions that come out of Schrödinger's equation. She should not be difficult to find. A family member must be involved, likely either a father or brother. _

_ "I'm making poison for someone who probably still plays with dolls? What's she to you?" I said dumbly. _

_ "It doesn't bother you that we're going after a kid?" He asked incredulously. I waved the question off._

_ "Why should it? It just seems rather pointless. But it's not my plan, is it?" _

_ He shrugged, disinterested. "Nope. So will it be done tomorrow?" I groaned. _

_ "Not if you want the actual product." It would have, in fact, been done the next day, but in light of new information I had something else that needed to be done. _

_ When I returned to Mike's apartment, I slammed the front door, and announced loudly, "It's time!" He sat up from the sofa slowly and turned to me. What I saw stopped me in my tracks, and I dropped my laptop bag. _

_ "What happened?" I asked, striding across the room and kneeling in front of the sofa. He had been in a fight, as he bore a black eye, swollen, cut lips, and he was bare-chested, with a soaked bandage wrapped sloppily around his stomach. He had been stabbed, though the wound had not seen professional help, as it was still bleeding. He looked like he was in immense pain. I immediately went to my room to find pain medicine, motioning for him to lie back down. _

_ "Ambushed by Catalina's gang. Four of Carlos' men died. I nearly did." _

_ I entered the room with a glass of water, a syringe of morphine and a first aid kit equipped with the materials for emergency sutures. "I can see that," I said, handing him the water which he accepted gratefully. His eyes met mine and he laughed a little, relaxing into the sofa, though shaking in pain. I pulled out my pocketknife and cut away his make-shift bandage. "Are you alright otherwise?" _

_ "Yeah. You should see the other guy." I grinned as I swabbed an area of his arm with alcohol and injected him with the morphine. "I didn't know you had all that here. You don't seem the type to be hyper-prepared for everything, Rob." _

_ I considered this as I cleaned the around the nasty, gaping stab wound just below his rib cage. It wasn't very deep, but it was wide and bleeding a lot. It did not appear as if any major organs had been damaged. "A friend of mine made me carry it everywhere." _

_ "A friend?" He asked, and I began to suture the wound, causing him to grimace. I have long ceased being surprised at people's reactions to hearing that I have a friend. Though his eyes were unfocused, he was trying to watch the process. "He teach you to do that?" _

_ "I already knew the basics. But yes, he was appalled at my technique, so he showed me a better way." _

_ "You're . . . good, now," he said, slurring his words a little. "Good with your hands." I chuckled. _

_ "Are you coming onto me?" _

_ "Don't flatter yourself. I don't know anything about you, Rob."_

_ "You let me live with you." _

_ "It was more like . . . an order. Who—who's your friend? 'S he dead?" Mike frowned at his inability to speak, and I shook my head, finishing the sutures. _

_ "Well, it's kind of like that." He groaned and waved me off. _

_ "I bet . . . you just pissed him off 'cause you, Robert Blankenship, are a confusing bastard. A real goddamn enigma." He said, and stared mumbling about what my real name could have been. I assured him that it was a pointless exercise. Finishing, I covered the clean wound with a fresh bandage and patted his shoulder. _

_ "Go to sleep. I'll be gone in the morning. There's something I have to do." This statement seemed to have the opposite effect on Mike, as he tried to sit up. _

_ "What're you doing?" he asked. I hesitated. He needed to know, but he also needed to sleep. _

_ "Can you stay awake for five minutes?" _

_ "Sure," he motioned for me to sit in the chair opposite. "What dangerous and insane situation are you running off to now?" _

_ He grew increasingly upset as I told him about my plan. I wasn't used to informing someone of my intentions, but working undercover with Mike was a situation much different from the ones I had been in previously, as Mycroft had told me repeatedly before I went in. I knew that Mike needed as much information as possible from me to keep himself alive. We were involved in a dangerous game, and we could not afford to misstep because of something as trivial as a communication error. _

_ "Jesus Christ," he said after I had finished. "Jesus Christ." He rubbed his eyes, but winced at the pull on his wound the movement caused. "You can't go alone." _

_ "I'll be fine." I assured him, wanting to quickly shut down any notion he might have of coming along. He was in no shape. _

_ "No. You're not going alone. I'm going with you." _

_ "You couldn't possibly—" _

_ "I'm coming with you. You need another person and we can't afford to fail. It's our only opportunity, as you've said. You can't be in two places at once." _

_ "I've done this before!" I said defensively, throwing up my arms in frustration. _

_ "You've rescued a young girl from being murdered by gangsters?"_

_ "Not exactly. But I can handle it, I assure you." _

_ "It's a dangerous risk, Rob. If you get found out, you die, she dies, I die, and the whole operation, years and months of work, goes up in smoke. I would rather die helping you than at the hands of Carlos and his ridiculous jeans after you get caught." _

_ "Thank you for the vote of confidence." _

_ "You're fucking welcome. I'll see you in the morning." I got up and walked towards my room, but Mike called after me. "Hey, Rob?" _

_ "Yeah?" I answered, turning around. _

_ "Thanks." I met his eyes and nodded, unable to think of anything to say. He gave me a small grin and then slumped down on the sofa and closed his eyes. _

_I stayed awake for some hours doing research. The girl's name was Katie Whittaker, the daughter of a local prosecutor who had been kidnapped some months ago by members of Carlos' operation, but had managed to escape. Brian Whittaker had been kidnapped after he had secured the conviction of Carlos' second in command for rape, five charges of murder, armed robbery, drug possession, and possession of illegal firearms. His life had been threatened numerous times throughout the case, but he had not succumbed to the threats. His experience seemed to only increase his resolve, as there were rumours about a possible run for the governorship. As it turned out, Brian Whittaker was also an avid deep-sea diver, who had earned a degree in marine biology before going to law school. _

John didn't know if he was angry or not. He supposed that could be because he was in some sort of shock, not dissimilar to the feeling he had experienced when Sherlock had informed him that he was a fake and then committed suicide in front of his eyes. After he slammed the door and burst onto the sidewalk, he had paused, uncertain of what to do, or what to believe, or even of what had just happened. He stood in the misty rain and scrubbed his hands over his tired face.

"This," he mumbled miserably, "makes no fucking sense. None of it." He exhaled loudly and instead of hailing a cab immediately, he decided to walk a little way to his flat. He desperately needed some fresh air to clear his mind.

As he walked, he kept running through his conversation with Sherlock, and as he thought through it, kept returning to the conclusion that at some point in his three year absence Sherlock must have actually lost his mind. The other option, John decided, was that Sherlock was up to something, and that was almost too frustrating to think about. It had the advantage of explaining the man's behaviour, instead of the almost trivial assumption that he was crazy. Of course Sherlock Holmes was insane. But he also did nothing without a reason for it, no matter how bizarre that reason may be. Even his final words at St. Bart's, indecipherable to John at the time, had in actuality meant something profound.

John collapsed on a bench in Regent's Park and buried his face in his hands and groaned, deciding that maybe he was angry after all. Sherlock was hiding something, or playing a game, or whatever else motivates him to mislead people. Sherlock was the most manipulative and infuriating person John knew. But, John supposed, he did have an advantage so far. He knew Sherlock. "Well," he mumbled out loud, "sort of." He decided the only thing to do would be to apply the detective's own methods to the problem.

He didn't take him long to decide that one of the reasons why Sherlock would deceive him is because either he or Sherlock was in danger in light of the recent murder of Sebastian Moran. John didn't know how, but he knew it had to be relevant. The alternative explanation was that Sherlock had actually decided to break ties with John, which John desperately hoped was untrue. The idea of Sherlock being alive and working without John was unbearable. Had he meant it? John felt dismayed at this line of thought, although he could not entirely bring himself to believe it. Either Sherlock didn't want him in his life anymore, after everything they had been though before St. Bart's, after everything he had said in the journal, or he had lied. And, John thought, the reason for such a cruel lie could only be dire indeed. It was the quickest way to ensure that John left him alone. So if he was lying, then he could already be in . . . "Oh, shit!" John exclaimed, jumping from the bench and dashing off into the street to hail a cab, earning several curious glances from bystanders.

Fidgeting impatiently in the cab, John silently cursed at Sherlock. Yes, he decided, he was definitely angry at the detective. How could he? What in the hell was he up to? Must nothing ever change? John growled in frustration, wanting to ensure Sherlock's safety so he could at least have the opportunity to yell at the impossibly intransigent detective. Nevertheless, he was apprehensive. He had no idea what he was heading into. As Sherlock would say, there wasn't enough data. Everything in him was telling him that Sherlock was involved in something deadly. A moment later, he wondered how many people were insane enough to decide upon a potentially dangerous course of action because they were betting on Sherlock actually liking them. He almost laughed out loud at the thought.

Soon after dark, Sherlock stepped quietly out of 221B wearing his coat with the collar turned upwards and his scarf wrapped around his neck. He lit a cigarette and disappeared into the shadows with a dramatic swirl of his coat.


	19. The Parting Clouds

_ The night that I had found Mike injured I realized something very disturbing: I cared that Mike was injured. I did not know if it was out of some misplaced longing for John's companionship or if I had actually grown fond of the man. It was likely a combination of both. I also knew that if were to assist me in the morning he could very well be more trouble than help, and would likely injure himself worse than he already was. I had plenty of experience with going into dangerous situations on my own. But, regardless of the exact reason, I could not sleep. Instead I turned to the sole comfort for my racing mind, and sat in a heavy silence in my room for many long hours. _

_Finally, after a circuitous and arduous debate with myself, I crept silently into the living room and walked over to the desk where I knew Mike kept his spare hand gun, casting a small, almost guilty glance in the direction of the sleeping form on the sofa. I carefully opened the drawer and removed the weapon, sliding it into the pocket of my jacket. With a mind quelled after a long deliberation, I was gone long before Mike ever stirred. _

John's cab pulled up, as instructed, a block away from Baker Street, just in time for him to catch a glimpse of Sherlock taking off into the dark. He hurriedly paid and made after the detective, thankful that he had made it in time, even after stopping to grab his gun on the way.

Although he had been employing everything he learned about tailing a target while in the military (which admittedly wasn't too much, considering that he had been a doctor), he found it challenging to keep up with the detective, who darted furtively and abruptly through alleys and deserted buildings, giving no indication of what his next move might be. At one point, he even led them through what appeared to John to be a drug den, where he stayed for nearly twenty minutes, conversing in urgent, hushed tones with one of the proprietors. He couldn't help but wonder if this was Sherlock's idea of a typical night on the town; he took to his surroundings so effortlessly. John took the opportunity to catch his breath, realizing that he still had next to no idea what Sherlock was doing or where he was ultimately going.

Initially, John had thought the drug dealer had been his destination, but when he saw money exchange hands for a parcel and a knife, he knew the night's work was far from finished. He was forced to bury his anxiety at the sight of the weapon, because knew that Sherlock rarely carried anything but his own wits. John closed his eyes painfully as the thought struck him: Sherlock feared for his life. By the time he opened them, Sherlock was on the move again and he had to jog to catch up.

The path that the detective took after his short respite was even more erratic than the one before. John lost him several times, only to coincidentally recover his trail. It was approaching 03:00 and the cold and darkness seeped its way into every crevasse and corner, even, it seemed to John, into his very bones.

He became frustrated when he lost Sherlock for the fourth time, and groaned angrily when he did not reappear soon after. He scanned the area, casting searching glances in all directions, only to realize that he had no idea where he was besides next to the Thames, surrounded by abandoned old factories. Somewhat panicked by Sherlock's disappearance, he jogged around the deserted brick warehouses, looking for any sign of light or movement from anyplace. There was nothing but complete darkness and he could hear only the sounds of the water and its traffic.

At the sound of a soft scuffling, John whirled around, pulling out his gun. Seemingly out of nowhere, a dark figure launched at him, tackling him to the ground, where he wrestled with his assailant for a few brief moments before he was hit in his stab wound. He gave out a strangled cry as the breath rushed out of him. The blinding pain caused his vision to swirl and go grey, even in the black of night. The dark figure grabbed him roughly by the collar of his jacket and hauled him to his feet, but his legs had gone numb and his head rolled to the side. He was shoved violently into a wall, and he could feel warm breath on his face.

John struggled to breathe and had a grip on the man's arms, though he was so weak that it was more for support than any sort of defensive purpose. He dimly noted when the man abruptly dropped his hold on John, and stepped away, mostly because he nearly crashed into the ground. He suddenly began to cough, and hunched over as oxygen flooded into his lungs, but soon ended up on his knees, dry heaving and clutching at the wound, desperately hoping he was not about to pass out at an abandoned warehouse at god-knows where on the Thames.

The hands shoved him back against the wall again from his sitting position. And though it was not as rough as before, it was decidedly not gently. John strained to focus on the man, who was on his knees and more or less supporting all of John's weight. "What in the hell do you think you are doing?" The man hissed at him. John moaned and dropped his head as he immediately recognized the deep voice. "Oh, fuck," he breathed, releasing a breath he wasn't aware that he had been holding. His body sagged unwillingly, and the man forced his weight up again, roughly. For an instant, John wished that it had been almost anyone else. "I could have killed you. Jesus, John!" The hands abruptly released him, and he crashed into the ground this time, with a surprised "oomph!"

The tall, thin figure of Sherlock Holmes paced frantically above him as he inhaled the scent of damp pavement and dirt from his inelegant, crumpled heap. He couldn't help it. He laughed. He laughed because of the absurdity of the situation, and of his life in general. Sherlock halted his pacing and glared. "Bloody hell!" he erupted, clutching at his hair, distraught and frustrated.

"You mean," John said, trying and so far failing to push himself up, "that you didn't know it was me?" Sherlock furrowed his brow in confusion.

"How could I have?"

"Um."

"For god's sake," Sherlock muttered angrily, and hauled John to his feet and placed him gingerly against the wall again, though he continued to hold him up awkwardly by his armpits. "Can you walk?"

"Sure I can," John replied, nodding.

"Then walk a half a mile east and get a cab home." John laughed at this, and Sherlock scowled.

_I knew I had to get to Katie Whittaker without compromising the entire undercover operation. I was counting on her being clever and tenacious. A little bravery would not hurt, either. From the picture I believed there was a good chance she was all of these things. A young woman pursuing advanced mathematics in America, striving to be successful even after the kidnapping of her father—surely she was a strong, intelligent individual. She would need every ounce of determination in her to survive the rest of the week. Her fate, after today, would be in her hands entirely. In many ways, the fate of myself and Mike Brezonik were in her hands as well. _

_Dressed in a tailored suit and tie, I walked into her school, playing the part of a law-office worker. As I had been in need of some specific stationary and a typewriter, I had already committed my day's quota of burglary at the office of Brian Whittaker. _

_Convincing the school's secretary that I was an employee of her father's was easily done. She walked into the office within five minutes, believing that she was being pulled out of a school for a family situation. Almost nothing could be closer to the truth._

_She followed me, though I knew she was hesitant, and climbed into the office car that I had borrowed for the morning. She recognized the car, which helped my case. She was as I had seen her in the picture—young, with large glasses and black hair pulled back, dressed in a school uniform. She studied me for several moments. _

"_Who are you?" She asked unexpectedly. I frowned, and steered the car south. I was headed for a safe house that was to be used only in dire circumstances. It was a ways out of the city, which was advantageous for me as well. _

"_Don't you want to know why you were pulled out of school?" She shrugged. "Where you are going?" She shook her head. _

"_I assume a threat has been made on my father's life." She said, looking out the window. _

"_It's true that this concerns your father's safety, but it is most directly related to you." This got her attention. _

"_What's happened? And who the hell are you?" She demanded. _

"_I need you to listen to me very carefully," I said, glancing at her peripherally. "Inside the glove box is a vial of a lethal poison called tetrodotoxin. There is also a vial of water and a solution of a chemical called 4-aminopyridine." She paled, but said nothing and listened intently. _

_They kidnapped her, as planned, and demanded a ransom. They injected the diluted poison into her arm, as I had warned her they would. The diluted poison would not be lethal for several hours now, and I was planning on getting her out long before that time had come. She had taken the large dose of 4-aminopyridine that morning, as instructed, and so she tried not to be frightened. That was perhaps the last thing that happened according to plan._

_I had planted several barrels of a surprise concoction for Carlos and his boss in the warehouse, as I knew they were taking a special, personal interest in the case. That was in case I needed to use Plan B. Little did I know, ten contingency plans would not have possibly been enough. _

_That morning I had handed the vial of poison to Carlos and taken the rest of the day off, disappearing from the lab and not bothering to return to the apartment. I headed for the warehouse where they were keeping her, waiting for their money and her death. I hoped Mike would not figure out her location. I did not need him to find Katie or myself and ruin the plan. _

_Unfortunately, that was exactly what happened. I caught sight of him as he vanished around a corner of the abandoned metal building, and followed quickly, cursing silently. My breath hitched as I saw him duck into the building. I realized that he thought I had either died already or was in there, in imminent danger. _

_I rushed in after him. When I caught sight of Katie's unconscious form on the floor and the bloodied gash on her head, I was thankful that her loss of consciousness was at least not due to the poison. Yet. Carlos and the woman were in the middle of a heated debate, and I saw the moment when Carlos detected Mike's movement. I ducked hurriedly, hoping desperately that they had not seen me. They had not. _

_Carlos roughly dragged Mike out from behind a stack of grates as I watched with increasing dread. He held a gun to his temple and led him out in the open. _

"_Nice of you to pop in. We've been expecting you to come out of hiding for a while now." Mike said nothing, but I noted the look of defeat on his face. _

"_Where's your partner?" The woman demanded, stalking over to the two. _

"_I don't have one." He lied. She nodded, and then backhanded him roughly. His head snapped to the side as his lip broke open and blood trailed down his chin. _

"_Where is he?" He shook his head, realizing probably instantly what the question meant: I was still out there. His nose was broken by Carlos for this, and the gun cocked. _

"_He's here. And if he doesn't come out now, I'm going blow your brains out." _

"Even i_f he isn't here, you'll die anyway of course, which is unfortunate, but entirely necessary I'm afraid," the woman added. "Well?" She asked, glancing around the warehouse. I took a deep breath and walked out. _

"_Oh! Hello," She smiled. Mike hung his head, the blood from his face forming a small puddle on the cement floor. _

"_I don't believe we've been properly introduced. My name is Angela, and you must be Sherlock Holmes." I instantly froze, and noted dimly that Mike's eyes snapped to my face. While it is true that I had abandoned my glasses, my hair was still blonde and my clothes were not the clothes I typically wore. I remained silent. She must have read my perplexity, as she said, "Oh, surprised, are you? I was too, when I saw the disgraced, ruined, deceased detective in my lab." She cast a neutral glance at Katie's still body. "The man who jumped off a building in a fit of despair, right in front of John Watson." My insides went to ice at this. "Who else would execute such a plan?" She smiled, shaking her head. "My god, is it Christmas?" _

"_I believe it is currently October," I said in a voice devoid of any emotion, while risking a glance at Mike, who had not taken his quick, intelligent eyes from me. They seemed to have acquired a spark at some point during the brief conversation. I narrowed my eyes, wondering what he had planned. I could see very few advantages to our current situation. _

_I cried out when Mike's elbow crashed into Carlos' face. I knew he was a dead man, but I leapt toward Carlos anyway, hoping to bring him down while Mike neutralized either Angela or Carlos. I was not being picky at this point. The gun had been knocked from Carlos' grip and scattered along the ground. As I wrestled with the stronger man, I saw Angela draw a gun from her jacket. Without pretence, she aimed and shot Mike in the chest. He crumpled to the ground with a groan, and I stopped struggling, shocked. _

"_Now, then," she said, stepping over his body and approaching Carlos and I. "Where were we before that rude interruption?" A shot rang out, and she stood perfectly still for an instant, and then fell to the ground, blood seeping from her stomach. I looked over her body to meet Mike's eyes. He was propped up on one elbow, holding his chest as his heart pumped away his blood. It poured over his hand. He nodded once at me, and collapsed, dead. I swallowed painfully, and whirled around, suddenly remembering Carlos. He already had acquired Angela's weapon and had it pointed it at my skull. Then he gashed me on the side of the head with it, and my vision went black. _

_What felt like days later, though I knew it could have only been instants, I regained consciousness, realizing the only reason that I was still alive was because Carlos did not know what to do with me. From my vantage point on the floor, I worriedly observed Katie, whose position had changed since I fell. I was sure of it. I closed my eyes, realizing how much worse things could still get. _

_ I spotted the gun Mike had used about a metre from my foot. I would not be able to grab with my hands, but if I kicked it, I could get it to Katie in an instant. I decided there was really little left to lose at this point. _

_ I sat up and kicked the weapon quickly towards her, yelling her name and then turned and immediately grabbed Carlos' legs, causing him to fall. Almost miraculously, it seemed to me, she sprung up and caught the skidding gun. Unluckily for me, Carlos had kept a hold of his weapon, and pressed it into my temple. _

"_Run!" I screamed at her, my eyes wide with horror. She had not moved besides to stand and point the weapon in Carlos' direction. This was unthinkable. I had not accounted for this. She was too far away for me to reach her. Even if I tried, I would be shot and then Carlos would gun her down. My captor grinned, holding me roughly up by my arm, which had been displaced at the shoulder in the previous scuffle by the looks of things, but I couldn't feel it. I could only watch her, petrified. No good outcome seemed possible. _

"_No." She said, meeting my terrified gaze with one of ethereal, perfect calmness. _

"No." John said.

"No?" Sherlock repeated the word dumbly, in disbelief.

"No." John's demeanour became serious again, and his resolve showed through his set jaw and hard eyes. In a lower and softer voice, he reiterated, "No. Just . . . no, Sherlock." The name came out as nearly a whisper. As the two men looked at each other, Sherlock's anger seemed to suddenly dissipate upon hearing John's words, and an inexplicable expression crossed his face. It was a rare expression of surprise, where his eyes were wide and his eyebrows were raised in shock, and all of Sherlock's characteristic hardness had been momentarily wiped form his face, revealing an intimate glimpse into his deepest thoughts and fears. In an instant, it was gone. He released John, who had regained enough strength to stand on his own, with a small amount of assistance from the wall.

"You cannot be here!"

"Sorry, Sherlock." John said, lowering his eyes.

"_Step away from him," She demanded. Carlos gave her a look of incredulity. _

"_Really? Why should I?" _

"_Or I blow us all up," she announced, stepping around Mike's body, walking closer to us and the bomb. "Those are barrels of glyceryl trinitrate. I shoot them, and this whole place goes up. I don't think I have to remind you of the likelihood of survival of such a blast." After a few tense moments, Carlos decided to bide his time, as she knew he would. He lowered his gun slowly. "Walk towards me, slowly. And throw your weapon over there." She nodded to her right. He obliged, and she grabbed his arm, holding the gun to his side. "When I see him walk out of this building, I'll let you go. Not until then," she informed Carlos. I shook my head fervently. _

"_Don't do this." I suddenly felt very numb. _

"_There's no other choice." And at that moment, I knew that she was right. The chances of the both of us making it out alive were becoming smaller by the second._

_What I saw next, I will never be able to erase from my mind. First, I saw Carlos duck quickly, pulling at his pant leg. "Katie!" I yelled at the top of my lungs, and began running toward her, but it was too late. In an instant, she had collapsed, a knife protruding from her chest—stabbed in the heart. I leapt on Carlos, punching him in the face and knocking him to the ground. I dove for the gun, aimed, and shot him without a second thought. He dropped immediately, dead. _

_I threw the gun away and knelt next to the girl. I was horrified to see that she was still conscious. I grabbed her hand instinctively. I remember thinking that I must have been in so much more pain than she was, because she looked neither afraid nor in pain, apart from the terrible pallor her face had taken on. I felt like I was going to throw up. Her eyes met mine and I chocked back a horrified sob, taking a shuddering breath. Her eyes suddenly welled up with tears: the first time they had done so since we met. _

"_Tell me," she gasped, "Who is Sherlock Holmes? In your real voice." I blinked at this, distraught, and in shock. _

"_Sherlock Holmes," I gasped, unused to the name and speaking in my natural voice, brushing her hair, which had fallen out of her tie, away from her forehead. Her focus was wavering, and her heart must have stopped a little before then. _

"_Sherlock Holmes is nobody," I choked out. "I am nobody." She shook her head, rejecting the statement. _

_Her eyes slid closed, and she whispered, "You are . . . Sherlock Holmes." She took a rattling breath, and then died with my name on her lips, lying in a puddle of blood. The floor of the warehouse was a grisly red, running with the blood of four different people. _

_I only found out later, while being treated at the Navy hospital that something had set off the glyceryl trinitrate, and the entire building had been obliterated, along with the four bodies in it. _

"John!" he exclaimed, desperate and breathing heavily, "I can't explain to you how imperative it is that you leave. On my own—I must do this on my own." He grabbed John's shoulders and forced him to meet his eyes. "Please," he entreated. Shaking his head miserably, John swallowed, still clutching his throbbing knife wound.

"Sherlock, last time I left you," he gasped out, "you died. I'm not making that mistake again. I'm not bloody leaving."

"I feel obligated to remind you that I did not die." Sherlock shot back crossly, dropping his hands from John's shoulders. John nodded, breathing heavily.

"I know my observational skills are somewhat lacking, but I did happen to pick up on that, yeah."

"Fine. There's nothing else to do here anyway," snarled the detective. "It was another dead end." He cast a worried glance at the doctor for the first time in their encounter. "Are you alright?" he asked, wrapping his long fingers around John's wrist.

"A lot of words, Sherlock, could describe our current situation. Alright is not one of them," he replied, closing his eyes against another wave of pain. Sherlock gave a small, half twitch of his lips and slid his hand down to John's elbow, grasping it firmly but gently.

"Let me know if you need to stop and rest," he said, accepting some of John's weight and leading him away from the building.

"Where are we going?" John asked, glancing worriedly at the detective, who gazed down at him with a strange warmth in his usually cold blue eyes.

"Home," Sherlock said, "to a much-needed cup of a tea and a soft bed." John hummed in approval of this, and, leaning his abused body on his friend, the two walked out of the receding darkness together.


End file.
